Playing With Fire
by lilmouse
Summary: Inspired by Virtual Season 3, with a tip of the hat to the Gathering Crowd. Max and Logan enjoy some time together before an unusual case gets hotter than either of them expected. Chapter Ten is now posted.
1. Chapter 1

November 7, 2005: I will try to be brief. No, really…

This story is **another** result of the writing challenge for the Vancouver Gathering in July - 'Echo' being the other. No, I have no clear idea **which** part of the challenge applies, so never mind. I've only just decided to consider posting it, as I have a bit done, and Alaidh, the Almighty Beta, has graciously agreed to work with me on this story as she has with many of my others. I am very fortunate. :)

This particular 'Dark Angel' universe was inspired by Virtual Season 3 and refers briefly to a short story I wrote titled 'Seriously'. Perhaps it should be considered AU from that point, as I don't know if it will relate to what is happening in Virtual Season 4 when it is complete. It isn't finished yet, but is a work in progress.

And for those who have kindly inquired, I'm still writing 'Getting Away From It All' and 'Thoughts in the Dark', but this story was just **sitting** there…

Enjoy. :)

**Playing With Fire**

**By Mouse**

**"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure."**

- **Nelson Mandela **

**December 10, 2022**

**Prologue: Max**

It's been just over ten months since I moved in with Logan to share his Eyes Only Penthouse in fashionable Sector Nine. The Seattle skyline looks beautiful from here as the day winds to a close, hiding the poverty and blatant imperfections of the post-Pulse world. It rained earlier in the day - when doesn't it rain? - but the storm has passed in time for a brilliant pink and purple sky.

I'm standing at the huge living room windows, arms folded, brooding about many things. This is a favourite spot for Logan to brood, so I thought, why not try it? Seems to help him sort things out. Or maybe it just provides a distraction for him, something to take his mind off his troubles. I shift my weight from one leg to the other and sigh. The polished wood floor feels cool and clean beneath my bare feet. The window would be spotless if not for the small smear my forehead left when I rested it there for about fifteen minutes, changing my position just for variety.

At least the building has decent circulation. The air in here is fresh with a hint of mint. The mint lingers from a few hours before, when my personal chef prepared a special sauce for tonight's lamb dish, which is slowly roasting in the oven. The aroma is making me salivate. He let me peel and clean the potatoes and give the carrots a good scrub, but most of the work fell to him. Again. _Still._ There are days when I wish I could do more in the kitchen, but then I remind myself how much he loves to cook and how much he particularly says he loves to cook for me. At least I've managed to get the hang of sandwiches and I can handle opening a can of soup, an "emergency abomination", according to a certain source, but Logan can't be around to feed me 24/7, so what's a girl to do?

The smudge on the glass is starting to bug me so I rub it clean with the cuff of my sweater. I refocus from the sunset to my reflection and wonder, not for the first time, how I've survived so much and still managed to find a happy ending. My story is hardly finished - far from it, I'm sure - but I like where I am right now, and I like my prospects for tomorrow. The girl - no, _woman_ - staring back at me is healthy despite much abuse to her body over the years and some weird tattoos that still need to be figured out. Maybe someday the code will be complete and it'll let us try to start a family…

I don't like the direction of my thoughts. They remind me of the child we lost due to my screwy genetics, and I think about her often enough without dwelling on it right now. I have other brooding to work through.

I liked where I was completely - until today.

Some keys jangle together, a lock clicks quietly and, after a moment, the front door opens and closes smoothly. The wheelchair is almost silent as he enters the apartment. I don't turn around. His reflection appears beside me, some distance back near the couch. He's looking at me, his face calm. The duffle bag holding his gear is in his lap. I note his hair is still wet from his swim and, despite wearing a jogging suit, he's shivering a little. I can smell the chlorine clinging to his skin like a coat of fresh paint.

"How was the water?" I ask, trying to keep my tone conversational.

"Great," he says. "You would've liked it."

"I don't do swimming for recreation," I reply, weary of the sharpness in my voice; it's been there all afternoon. I can't seem to stop myself from snapping, which is one reason I'm at the window, trying to clear my mind sufficiently to figure out why.

There's still so much about who I am - _what_ I am - that begs to know the _why_ in some of my actions and in the words that come out of my mouth. I could be at the window forever trying to make sense of it all.

"Maybe you'll want to give it a try in the New Year," he says, same casual, non-aggressive approach he's had since our blow up at lunch. He could just avoid me, but he remains persistent and annoyingly understanding.

_Bastard._

"Maybe not."

"Think of it as a resolution, to prove Manticore doesn't still control what you do."

"Don't bring that place here," I respond tightly.

"It's about choice, really, isn't it, Max?"

"Shut up."

"Still won't talk about it, huh?"

"I don't know what the topic is so how can I talk about it?"

He stares at my reflection and meets my eyes there. "I think you know what the topic is," he states evenly. "You just can't seem to grasp _why_ it's an issue."

"Oh, really?" I smile but it isn't pleasant. "Well, thank you, dear, for your wonderful insight, what would I do without it? How lucky I am to have such a compassionate man in my life."

I sound angry and bitter and harsh. Why won't I stop talking? What's wrong with me?

**_You're an idiot_**, my Inner Commentator declares.

_Shut up._

Logan nods, almost imperceptibly.

"Dinner is about half an hour away. I'm going to have a quick shower."

"Knock yourself out."

He turns neatly and wheels toward the bedroom. I hear the muted sound of the duffle bag being tossed onto the bed then the chair moves quietly to the bathroom. The door closes, the water comes on, and I can picture him stripping and transferring efficiently to the seat in the shower stall. The image of him naked under the hot water is vivid and I lose myself for a moment, letting my thoughts dwell on the handsome, intelligent, sexy man who wants to spend the rest of his life with me.

_Me._

Soldier. Genetic freak. Jam Pony messenger. Personal cat burglar. Saviour. Transgenic leader. Canvas for the Unseen Tattoo Artist. Friend.

Lover.

My Inner Commentator stirs again.**_ Is that so difficult to believe, boo?_**

_I'm not talking to you._

Maybe it's because things have been quiet for a change and we have a chance to think about _ourselves_ rather than saving the world. Is it such a bad thing that we should consider our future? What am I afraid of? Logan still has his 'Superman' surgery as an option to pursue, but we never got around to discussing it again, not after the blow up we had twelve days ago. Maybe that's still lurking in the back of my mind. So many possibilities…

He could walk again. It could fail. I could lose him.

I sigh and gaze at my reflection, considering Logan's words. There are several things I could be brooding about, but I know the topic he's referring to, and I don't know why it's an issue with me. It's the logical progression, especially considering his background and romantic nature.

We were talking about relationships today - other peoples', not ours - and Logan brought up the topic of marriage, not exactly proposing so much as opening a discussion with me.

And I bit his head off.

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	2. Chapter 2

November 8, 2005: Posting another chapter of the **same** story the very next day.

I think this might be a record… ;)

I was able to send a few chapters of 'Playing With Fire' at once and Alaidh, bless her, surprised me with a Beta today.

Thank you. :)

The VS3/AU story continues. Enjoy!

**Playing With Fire**

**By Mouse**

**"Pray God our greatness may not fail**

**Through craven fears of being great."**

**- Alfred, Lord Tennyson**

**Prologue: Logan**

For some reason, I didn't realize it would be this difficult.

I've been thinking about it for a while now, watching how she dealt with sharing my apartment, making sure I didn't crowd her. We actually both need our personal space, and although our timing doesn't always coincide, I think it's worked out pretty well. I won't say she's settled; that wouldn't be the right word. She seems… comfortable. That would be more accurate.

I didn't plan to test the waters today. Max started talking about one of her co-workers and how he deals with relationships. Apparently, he could use some pointers from me. That was an unexpected but encouraging piece of information. It led to a discussion about commitment while I made grilled cheese sandwiches and she prepped the potatoes and carrots for dinner. It seemed natural to go from there, as if I were picking up my cue in some play, and I asked her opinion on marriage, and if she thought we were the type of couple who would want to take that step.

And she bit my head off and chewed on it for half an hour. Anything I said only fuelled her anger and made me angry, too.

Lunch was painfully civil.

I worked on an Eyes Only lead afterward on a minor arson case, excusing myself from the table politely. Max had snorted and cleared the dishes. I could hear her muttering in the kitchen. To define my space, I pulled the rice paper divider to close the computer area off from the rest of the apartment before she came out. Moments later, I could see her pause outside and watched her shadow from the corner of my eye. I was determined not to get distracted and stubborn enough to let her offer the peace first.

After a few minutes she moved down the hall and I heard the door to the bedroom close. _At least she didn't slam it_, I had thought.

An hour later, I emerged to start the roast. The door to our bedroom remained closed and I decided to leave her alone. Lamb in the oven, I set the temperature and timer and returned to the computer.

Another hour passed. I'd straightened in my chair and removed my glasses long enough to rub my tired eyes. The stress of our argument - I'm trying not to dwell on the words we said - was making it hard for me to focus on my work, and research that should've been fairly straight forward was taking forever. I decided to go for a swim. Good thing my duffle bag was on the dryer with everything I needed in it, packed for the pool after the last load of laundry.

"I'm going down for a swim," I called out. Nothing. "Back in a while."

Silence.

I placed the potatoes in the pan beneath the roast before making a swift departure.

I lost count of the laps I did after twenty.

I'm going over all this as I sit in the shower, letting the hot water drench my head, trying to figure out what I could've done differently to avoid this schism between us.

**_You could've kept your mouth shut, Cale._**

_Easy to say, hard to do_, I tell my Inner Voice.

**_Things were fine until you started chewing on your foot._**

_Actually, no, they weren't fine. I needed to find out how she felt about it. I love her. I'd die for her. Marriage is a way for me to express my commitment to her._

**_That worked really well with Valerie._**

_Don't bring her into this._

**_Max has issues, dolt._**

_Well, it's time to deal with this one._

Seeing her at the window, my favourite brooding spot, was almost eerie. I knew the kind of thoughts that generally went through my head when I sat there, staring at the skyline. She hadn't put on any lights in anticipation of the coming night. The colours of the post-storm sunset silhouetted her figure, back to me, arms folded, hip thrust to one side, feet bare. She didn't turn when I entered, but obviously knew I was there. Our brief exchange was less heated than the one at lunch but her sarcasm was still in full swing. I retreated to the shower, to purge myself of the chlorine, warm my chilled skin and calm the ache in my heart that I'd caused her grief.

I can't stay in here much longer. I'll run out of hot water shortly and even if I had all the hot water in the state of Washington, I don't particularly want my skin to shrivel and resemble a prune. The lamb will be ready soon and I went to some effort to acquire it. Don't want it to go to waste. Besides, Max is out there and she's hurting. I promised I'd never leave her, and if our time in Terminal City didn't convey that sufficiently, today will be the day I make that crystal clear.

Turning off the water, I listen for movement in the rooms beyond, any indication that she's still here - or the sound of her running for the front door now that I'm coming out of the bathroom. I guess it would be beautiful on the Space Needle right now. I can't hear anything but the exhaust fan. As quickly as possible I put a towel on the seat of the wheelchair and transfer. I dry myself poorly and pull on a robe. Placing my jogging suit in my lap, I switch off the fan and open the door.

Cool air and classical music greet me. I'm not wearing my glasses and my eyes are having trouble adjusting to the dark hallway. I enter our bedroom and switch on the lamp on my side of the bed. Not bothering to close the door, I shed the robe and focus on speed to get dressed: boxers, cotton pants, socks, and turtleneck sweater. Retrieving my glasses, I wheel hesitantly into the hall. I note the time on the digital clock as I pass the office. In fifteen minutes, the roast will be done.

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	3. Chapter 3

November 11, 2005: My thanks to Alaidh for getting this chapter Betaed so quickly. I am in awe. :)

Thanks to those who have left reviews. I appreciate the feedback. Though I'm not sure where this story will lead, it won't leave me alone. :)

Enjoy!

**Playing With Fire**

**By Mouse**

"**Liberty is always unfinished business."**

**- Title of 36th Annual Report of the American Civil Liberties Union, **

**1 July 1955 – 30 June 1956**

**Chapter One**

**Sticks and Stones**

Max had made a decision: she wasn't going to run. She didn't know how long she had before her lover would emerge from the shower, but she wanted to be damn sure he felt welcome when he did. She quickly rifled through his collection of CDs and selected one with piano concertos by Handel.

Max smiled. _Another old, dead guy_, she thought, recalling a comment along those lines from a Max she used to know. She'd thought about changing into something dressier than jeans but decided against it. _Don't want to look like I'm tryin' too hard._ She'd set the table and lit the candles and sat on the couch and waited. She didn't jump when the water stopped, but it did make her more alert.

_Soon…_

Handel twiddled quietly like a sunny afternoon through the apartment. On an impulse, she sprang for the matches and lit the large pillar candles that were scattered around the living room in the event of a blackout.

_Perfect…_

This wasn't an "I'm guilty as charged" touch so much as an "I want to make it better" touch. Max had decided they were both responsible for how the lunch conversation had degraded. It was time to make things right again.

Logan Cale paused before entering the living room, noting that gentle candlelight accompanied the delicate strains of Handel. He saw the table set for two and let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. _She hasn't left_, he thought, profoundly relieved. After all they'd been through, he hoped he'd never make her feel unwelcome. She still visited the Space Needle but that was like him going into his office and closing the screen: personal space. Everyone needed to get away, now and then. But this was her home now, too. He didn't want her running to escape _him_.

Logan had decided they were both responsible for how the lunch conversation had degraded. It was time to make things right again. It appeared Max was thinking the same thing.

As he entered the room, she turned to face him from her position on the couch. She sat at one end with her feet tucked under her bottom, leaning against the back corner, arms relaxed at her sides. Logan swallowed. The last glow from the setting sun warmed her golden skin and highlighted her wavy, black hair. How is it she looked breathtaking in something as simple as jeans, a singlet and a long-sleeved sweater?

"Hey," she said quietly, and gave him a tentative smile.

"Hey." He manoeuvred the wheelchair until it stopped beside the couch. Dinner was nearly ready, so he didn't transfer to the seat beside Max, though he really wished there was time to do so. _Swallow it, choke on it, whatever it takes, _he thought, _but don't say anything stupid right now._ "You're beautiful." Was that stupid? It didn't touch the lunch topic or how he felt about her, but it wasn't bad. And it was the unvarnished truth.

"Thanks. You look pretty good yourself…" Her smile widened. "For a guy with mismatching socks." Logan glanced down at his feet, startled. "Ha. Made you look."

He shook his head and chuckled. "I can't believe I fell for that."

"Again."

"Hey, don't kick a guy when he's down," he responded playfully, "especially when he's the cook."

"I'm only kidding. Get a grip."

Logan wiggled his eyebrows. "I'd like to," he said suggestively. It worked. On cue, Max leaned in closer and swatted him playfully on the arm. Her breath dusted him with the undeniable scent of cherries, like some ethereal spell. _Must write that in my journal_, he thought absently, as her lips pressed against his in a kiss that remained slow and pleasant but could not be mistaken as anything but passionate by any cultural standard. Their arms came around one another, Max shifting forward to kneel on the couch so Logan didn't strain something trying to reach her. Unhurried, familiar, they savoured the moment.

A buzz from the oven finally separated them. They parted and grinned at one another. Logan backed away from the couch and headed for the kitchen, Max following leisurely in his path.

"Smells incredible," she commented, setting two plates on the counter. They usually served in the kitchen then carried their dinner over to the dining table. Protective mitts at the ready, Logan opened the oven and carefully pulled the pan towards him and down to the cork hot plate. The lamb spat and hissed and the aroma was delightfully overwhelming. He reached for a sheet of foil and covered the pan. It had to sit for about ten minutes before carving.

"Start warming the sauce," he said, and she turned the knob for the small back burner to its lowest setting, just enough to heat the mint sauce in the pot. "And the carrots." Max moved swiftly to the steamer and started the clock ticking. Logan leaned over the lamb, inhaled deeply and smiled at her. She felt her heart lurch, just like the heroine in those trashy novels Kendra used to read, and was reminded once again how committed she was to this man, and how much had changed in the last three years.

"Thanks," Logan said, pleased they could work side by side in the kitchen. It was a team effort he'd missed during the second year of their relationship. His heart tightened when he noticed her staring at him, as if requiring visual confirmation that he was really there, with her, and they were still together. These moments still happened sometimes, and he caught her when she thought he wasn't paying attention. How many times had he not noticed that look? He'd never know. It had to stop. His resolve to clarify his position strengthened. Tonight, they would sort it out and she wouldn't have any cause to doubt he would always be there for her.

He sighed. Of course, he couldn't control the Fates, couldn't declare with certainty that he'd _always_ be there. She was twenty-two and he… wasn't. And she was so much more than human, the epitome of human potential, with assistance from the scientific community, of course. He wondered what Michelangelo would've thought of this development. Who knew how long she'd live, how long any of the transgenics would live, barring accident or illness? All he could promise is that he'd never willingly leave her again.

_That sounds so melodramatic_, he thought, reaching for the carving knife and sharpening stone. _That's my life, I guess._ He glanced up at Max, who had ceased staring at him and was now stirring the sauce and glancing at the timer for the carrots. _Our lives_, he corrected.

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Max took a sip of the last of her red wine and carefully placed the glass on the table. They had opened a bottle of Logan's favourite, chilled for the occasion: 1999 Concha Y Toro Casillero del Diablo Cabernet Sauvignon from Chile. The name was a mouthful but the wine was divine. The aroma reminded Max of eucalyptus and raspberry jam. Logan described it as having a "heavy body" that was best enjoyed with cheese. The five-year-old cheddar had complimented it well.

"That was delicious."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. Thanks for your help."

"Hey, it's another Saturday night and I got nothin' better to do."

Logan threw his napkin at her and hit her squarely in the face. It dropped to her lap. She sent him a mock scowl.

"Nice aim," she said dryly.

"It's one thing I have going for me in a fight," Logan said, somewhat wistful. He drank the last of his wine and set the glass down firmly on the table. Maybe they shouldn't have finished the entire bottle by themselves…

"No kidding." Max had lost count long ago of how many occasions Logan's timely and skilled intervention with a gun had saved them both. Tonight she wasn't going to relive those particular situations, though - especially that time with the Reds, and then there was Cape Haven, and -

She shivered. She was going to focus on their relationship.

"Logan?"

"Yeah?"

"About - about earlier, you know?"

Logan nodded. "Yeah." Unconsciously they both took a deep breath and spoke simultaneously.

"I'm sorry about some of the things I said." They stopped abruptly when they realized they were speaking the identical words. Quiet laughter followed, nervous glances at the candles and dishes.

"I -" **_Stick to it, Cale._** "I still want to talk about it. You know, sometime - some_day_, not now, necessarily. I don't want to rush anything, and it's just to discuss it, you know?" He finally looked at her then, his inability to communicate something so simple obviously frustrating him.

"There are times when it still boggles me that you're Eyes Only."

He looked startled, not expecting this comment.

"It does?"

Max smiled gently at him. "Yeah. No one would ever suspect it was you. You can talk to the nation about corruption and murder but personal stuff is still… difficult."

"Sometimes," he responded, wincing internally at the defensive tone in his voice. He sighed. "I don't want to -"

"Scare me away?" He fell silent. That was answer enough, and the one she'd expected. She pushed her chair back from the table and stood. "You can't get rid of me that easily," she joked and reached for the plates. Logan placed a hand on her arm, stilling her movements.

"Leave them," he whispered. They stared at one another for a moment. Logan removed his hand and wheeled from the table over to the couch. Max glanced at the dishes.

They could wait.

Logan transferred from his chair and Max snuggled up beside him on the couch, her feet tucked under her bottom. He placed his left arm around her. It was a warm, comfortable, timeless moment. Handel had long since stopped playing. They had subsequently listened to some Vivaldi, Mozart, Chopin - _all old dead guys_, Max thought - and were currently listening to a recording of more recent music, if the late nineteen eighties could be thought of as recent. _I guess compared to Handel…_ It was a group called _U2_ - at least she'd _heard _of them - and it wasn't bad, if you liked that sort of thing. Some of the tunes were neat. Logan said he had all of their CDs, including some live performances. If she liked them, they could listen to more another time.

_Whatever._

Her back itched. She started to reach and scratch then froze, thinking of the tattoos there. _Please tell me another one isn't forming, oh please, please, please…_

"Logan, do you think we'll ever have a normal life?"

He thought about it for a few beats then said, "Sure, why not? Depending on your definition of normal, of course."

"Well, being a freak isn't normal, right?"

His arm tightened protectively. "Max, you're not a freak, any more than I am. You're an… accelerated human and I'm… I'm mostly paralysed from the waist down. We might be different from some of the population, sure, but we aren't 'freaks'."

"Some of the transgenics use that word to empower them."

"I know. But I also know that isn't how you're using it right now."

Max thought about her response. "No," she said truthfully, and wondered if she should ask Logan to look at her skin, just in case. "I saw this old poster a few weeks back, at the base of the Space Needle. That shot of me on the hoverdrone, you know?"

"I remember," he said quietly, gently rubbing her shoulder with his hand, making circles on the sleeve of her sweater.

"It just… brought things back."

"It doesn't matter what anyone thinks or what anyone says."

Max sighed. "I know."

"Some people have the need to find labels for everything, so their world is neat and organized in little slots that keep them happy." Logan hugged her shoulders. "'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.'" Max snorted quietly. "Yeah, I know. It's trite, but true. It's the words _we_ choose to use that matter."

She placed a hand on his thigh. Though he couldn't feel it, he saw it there. Logan turned his head and kissed her right temple. "It's all gonna be alright, Max," he murmured. She moved her hand from his thigh to the back of his head and pulled him down for a kiss.

The kiss deepened, their dessert forgotten, sealed in little pudding bowls in the fridge. It could keep. It could wait. Everything could wait.

_U2_ was playing 'With or Without You'. Logan was only vaguely aware of how well the selection complimented certain stages of their relationship, as he was rather preoccupied. Urgent sounds accompanied the music. The clatter of his glasses just reaching the coffee table, the frames balanced on the edge. The whisper of clothing on skin, clothing hitting the floor. A zipper opening a pair of jeans, the snaps being popped on cotton pants, change chiming against the wood as it fell from a pocket, breathing heavy and soothing in the apartment.

Max pushed Logan back onto the couch and raked her nails down his chest, delighting in the sensation of the fine hairs. Fingertips grazed his abdominals like the tickle of a feather, staying where he still had sensation.

"Anyone could see," he said huskily, not really caring as his angel straddled his hips. He reached up and delicately felt the skin just under her breasts, still remembering clearly the months of torture when he couldn't touch her at all, not even hold her hand, not without latex gloves and a lot of bleach; it would've meant his death. She smiled down at him, radiant in the candlelight. At times like this, he knew he _had_ to touch her or he'd die inside.

She glanced briefly at the huge window and shrugged. "We haven't got the lights on, and besides, who'd be lookin'?"

Logan couldn't find a flaw in her reasoning - not that he considered it for any measurable amount of time. Even if he'd wanted to debate the wisdom of their location, he wasn't given an opportunity to think.

Then all that mattered was her body moving over him, the grip he had on her upper arms as she rocked, their heady whispers in the flickering shadows and the shared taste of wine on their lips.

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	4. Chapter 4

November 26, 2005 – Another chapter of this story all set to go. Now I just need to write **more** chapters… :)

Your patience is appreciated as I attempt to work on several stories at once.

I send my continued thanks to Alaidh for taking the time to Beta, and to those who read and enjoy, and to those who read and review. It makes a world of difference to know that folks are still enthusiastic about 'Dark Angel' and feel that what I write has merit.

Enjoy!

**Playing With Fire **

**By Mouse**

"**Happy am I who out of danger sit,**

**Can see and pity them who wade thro it;**

**Need take no thought my treasure to dispose,**

**What I ne'er had I cannot fear to lose."**

**-Mary Astell**

**Chapter Two**

**Interruption**

The shrill sound of Logan's cell phone interrupted them as they dozed on the couch.

"I'll get it," Max said quietly, and disentangled herself from his embrace. Completely naked and unashamed, she slid from the couch and made it to the office, grabbing the phone on the third ring. "Hey," she said, in lieu of a more formal greeting. Logan sighed and tried to relax, letting his head tip back, stretching his neck. He was still basking in the warmth of their lovemaking, a complimentary conclusion to their evening.

It took a few seconds for him to realize Max wasn't saying anything. He pulled himself up using the back of the couch and craned his neck to look at her. She was standing still, her back to him, listening intently.

"Max…"

An abrupt gesture with her hand silenced him. "I'll get Logan, but your signal's bad. I can't hear you very well… Where are you?" She turned and walked briskly to the couch, listening intently, frowning as she brought him the phone. "Where are you?" she repeated, almost shouting. She made an exasperated noise then passed the offending piece of technology to Logan.

"Hello?"

"I think its Matt."

"Matt?" Static assaulted his ears. "Can you hear me?"

More squawking followed, then, "_Sorry, going through a bad area…(shriek) … I need to meet with you…"_

"Matt, I'm losing your signal. What's going on?"

"_Can't go into it… (shriek) …important… in a hurry… (shriek) … Eyes Only should know."_

"Let's choose a place now, before your phone dies."

"_I'm in Sector (shriek) right now."_ Logan frowned, as equally frustrated as Max with the communication difficulties. "_Can we meet at _The Squire… _a pub…do you think …(shriek) … get to Sector Five before eleven?"_

"_The Squire_, which is a pub in Sector Five," Logan repeated. "Did I get that right?"

"_Yeah (shriek), that's right… before eleven. Don't be late or (shriek)."_

The line went dead. Logan sighed and dropped the phone to the couch beside him.

"Well," he said, grinning ruefully. "I guess the rest of _my_ evening is planned."

"_Our_ evening," Max said firmly. "I'm coming with you."

"Max…"

She held up her hand, palm facing him. "Ah. I'm coming."

"Max, you -"

"Ah. Stark hand of denial here."

"I don't think -"

"Hey. I do the thinking this time. I'm coming with you."

Logan wondered at what point he had started losing ground. "But -"

"No buts." Max lowered her hand and started scooping clothing off the floor, sorting out which pieces belonged to her. The rest she tossed to Logan. "I'm coming. Now, get dressed."

"I'm missing a sock," Logan managed weakly, quickly assessing his pile.

She grinned. "I know where the socks live."

He playfully balled his lone sock, threw it at her and missed. She laughed and darted to the bedroom while pulling on her singlet, emerging seconds later with a pair of folded socks.

She made certain he was paying attention before taking aim and whipping them at his head. He caught them unerringly and they joined the rest of his clothing on the couch beside him.

"We never got to dessert," Max observed, pulling on her underpants and reaching for her jeans.

"_I_ did," he said smugly.

Max rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean. The pudding."

"We'll have it when we get back." Logan had his boxers on and began pulling the turtleneck over his head. Max paused while zipping her jeans to admire the movement of his muscles. She smiled wickedly and pounced on him.

"Screw Matt. I wanna play again."

There was a time when he wouldn't have been amused. Embarrassed, yes. Angry, maybe. Eyes Only was intensely important then, more important than anything else - or anyone.

He laughed and hugged her tightly to him. "You know we can't do that."

She sighed dramatically but smiled at him. "Yeah. Fight the power."

"Protect the downtrodden."

"Blah, blah -"

"Woof, woof."

"I wouldn't want you any other way." _Most of the time._ She sat back on the couch and picked her sweater up from the floor with the toes of her right foot.

"Just as well," Logan said, tugging his cotton pants over his hips. "I can't _be_ another way." It was the truth, and sometimes it frustrated him just as often as it did her. Accepting who he was hadn't been the easiest task, and realizing he could bend the rules for himself and allow Max into his life was a personal victory in his battle to understand what made him tick.

He leaned over and kissed her softly on the lips before transferring to the wheelchair and looking for his shoes, prepared to face whatever evil was conspiring against them.

_How lucky I am to have such a compassionate man in my life_, she thought, without the earlier sarcasm.

_**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**_

They reached _The Squire_ just after ten o'clock, plenty of time before eleven, and therefore avoiding the dire consequences implied by the cryptic call from Matt Sung.

A pity it was closed.

Not only closed, but boarded up, gated shut and padlocked.

The yellow caution tape was a nice touch.

"Oh-kay," Logan said, staring at the sign on the door that declared it was 'Closed', in case a potential patron had missed the other clues. The graffiti was predominantly territorial, as far as he could tell, though he didn't recognize the marks as being from any group of which he was aware.

"I need a beer." Max stood beside him, arms folded as she scanned the building and then the street for some indication of why Matt had asked to meet them here.

They had parked the Aztek on another block and taken the short distance to the pub unhurriedly. The neighbourhood wasn't well to do but it had a healthy variety of stores carrying hand-made items and imported foods mixed in with junk shops and used clothing. There was even a pizza parlour, imaginatively called 'Pizza Now' if the neon sign above the main door was accurate. One of the 'zeds' was dark. It was the only thing open.

"I'm going to check with Matt," Logan announced and pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his leather jacket.

"I'm hungry."

"Of course you are." Logan nodded towards 'Pizza Now'. The restaurant section was closed but at the take-out window there was a light and a smell of cheese. There was no sign of an attendant. "If they've got something with hot peppers and sausage, I'll take it."

Max smiled. She had to admit that sounded pretty good.

Leaving Logan in front of _The Squire_, Max crossed the road and walked the few steps necessary to reach the window, which was low enough that she could lean on the sill with her elbows. The interior wasn't very spacious, just enough for someone to sit on a chair to take the orders. The light came from a single bulb, which dropped down from the ceiling on a cord. A curtain across the back featuring a faded pattern of climbing roses probably led to the kitchen of the main restaurant.

She couldn't see a bell or a button to push, so she cleared her throat and said, "Hello?"

Logan watched her progress, keeping a protective eye on her out of habit. There wasn't much he could do if someone were to try to mug her, but he could at least give a warning cry that might scare him or her off.

Not that Max needed him to rescue her. Au contraire.

If he'd been in the exoskeleton, he probably would have escorted her. The gentleman inside him still existed. Hold the door, carry the heavy bags and escort a lady across the road. Though he could easily negotiate the curbs, the wheelchair just made his evening a bit more challenging than he thought he could manage. Using the exo unnecessarily had ramifications that a simple trip to the pub hadn't warranted.

_Simple trip to the pub. Yeah. Right._

He frowned when he reached Matt's voice mail twice in a row. Once, he might not have made it to the phone. Twice? The first call would have alerted him that someone was trying to get in touch. Logan's frown deepened. At the beep, he simply said, "Matt, it's me. You know where I am. Call me." He held the phone in his hand for a moment, half expecting it to ring before he'd placed it in his pocket.

It sat still and silent in his palm, denying him contact with his friend.

_Damn. What the hell was going on?_

Movement caught his attention. It looked like someone was coming to the take-out window.

"Hey," Max said to the young, pale face that appeared from behind the curtain. A small hand gripped the fabric as if it were the deciding factor in her existence. The curtain moved open some more to reveal a fair-haired girl, wearing a blue t-shirt and cut-off shorts. Max guessed she was about fifteen years old. She seemed nervous, so Max smiled in a manner she hoped would appear friendly and said, "Whatcha got tonight?"

"Uh," the girl said, eyes darting at the hand-written menu pages that were stapled to the wall to her left and at some scribbled notes on the shallow shelf that was on the other side of the window. "We have…"

Max noted the girl was also looking beyond her, across the street, at Logan. She glanced over her shoulder and noted that he was trying his phone again. "My friend wants something with sausage and hot peppers, if you got it." She turned back to the girl, who had gone even paler. Max hadn't thought that was possible. She looked like she was about to faint. "Hey, are you okay?"

Then she heard the ring. If she wasn't a souped-up girl, it might have gone unnoticed, but the distinct sound of a cellular telephone could be heard coming from the other side of the curtain. It could be anyone's phone. Intellectually, Max knew that. But she couldn't ignore that fact that it stopped ringing at the same time Logan started leaving another message for Matt Sung.

"We have pepperoni," the girl blurted. "We don't have any sausage tonight."

_Why is she so terrified?_

"That's okay," Max said as casually as possible, maintaining her smile and shrugging slightly. "He'll deal. I'll take two pepperoni slices." She pulled some change from her pocket and waited to be told how much it would cost.

Waited for the other shoe to drop.

The girl seemed paralysed. _Oh, this _so _isn't good_, Max thought, her senses catching the sound of fresh clips being inserted into guns and readied for business: three guns, to be exact, loaded almost simultaneously. Using her enhanced vision, she quickly scanned the darkness behind the girl and could clearly see one of the weapons being raised, glinting slightly from the light from the bulb out front. She had no doubt the other two would be similar in design if not identical.

_SIG-Sauer P250_, Max determined. _Developed in Germany in 2001 according to the official German guidelines at the time for a police pistol, fifteen rounds per clip._

_I am destined not to get pizza tonight._

She quickly assessed the size of the window.

Logan finished leaving another message and returned his phone to the right-hand pocket of his jacket. He looked at the front of _The Squire_ again. Perhaps it had been a very nice spot in it's heyday - the bones were good and reflected the design of old pubs in Britain - but even without the boarded windows and graffiti, it would need considerable attention to get it back up and running. A shame. He didn't know many pubs that maintained that kind of European flair after the Pulse.

He turned back to Max and saw her speaking with a girl in a blue top. He wasn't really hungry, especially with the meal they'd consumed only a few hours before, but the idea of pizza and the irresistible smell of cheese had lured him into placing an order.

_It's only one slice_, he thought, checking the change in his other pocket in case she needed more money. He smiled. _With any luck, I'll have the chance to work it off before I go to sleep tonight._ A few quarters fell to the sidewalk and he bent over to pick them up.

He wasn't expecting the bullet that smacked into the brick behind him where his head had been a second before. He glanced up in time to see Max launch herself through the window then he had to focus on his own situation. There was no point in trying to wheel to safety; he might as well be one of those ducks at a target game on a fair ground with the speed he could manage. He did the only thing he could think of and threw himself to the left, landing behind the minimal cover of his chair.

A few more bullets pinged around him then there was silence.

He carefully peered around one of the wheels. Max was gone. The girl was gone.

He sat still, heart pounding, barely daring to breathe. He was trapped behind his wheelchair on the cold pavement, which the lower half of his body couldn't feel, in a poorly known neighbourhood on a December night with one trivial, irritating thought popping into his mind.

_I haven't bought Max her Christmas present yet._

_**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**_


	5. Chapter 5

**October 25, 2006:** I will start with an apology. This story was last updated on November 26, 2005 - almost one year ago. Yikes!

'Getting Away From It All' is now complete and though 'Thoughts in the Dark' hasn't been updated in a while, it is still a work in progress. The latest chapter required three revisions and through it all my amazing Beta, Alaidh, was swamped with Real Life and other authors with whom she is committed to Beta.

Feast or famine, right, Alaidh? Thanks for sticking with me. :)

I don't own 'Dark Angel' or any of the characters established by the creators of this universe. Just having fun, folks.

**November 28, 2006:** I'm going to post the next chapter of 'Thoughts' first, then this, and hope FFN is being nice to me. I haven't been able to access it properly for over a month now, with only hit-and-run visits as the site permitted.

This story being even less recently added to than 'Thoughts', I hope folks remember it at all, lol! No matter. I'll get through it eventually, guys.

My thanks to Alaidh who Betaed this really quickly, bless her. You make me look good, girl. :)

If you can't remember what has happened so far in this story, I suggest re-reading before you continue. The chapters aren't very long and you'll probably enjoy **this** chapter more if the previous events are fresh in your head.

And finally, my continued thanks to the gang at Post-Pulse, the crew on the BBWW forum, and all who have taken the time to read and review my writing. I greatly appreciate your feedback and support.

Fight the power. Protect the downtrodden. Blah, blah. Woof, woof.

Enjoy!

**December 16, 2006:** 'Thoughts in the Dark' was updated a few weeks ago. :) Okay, okay, finally getting **this** posted – assuming FFN is talking to me today. It hasn't been working for me properly for months now. For those of you who are used to seeing me around here, FFN, computer issues and Real Life have been awkward, frustrating and time consuming, respectively. I'm not dead yet.

Thank you, Alaidh, for your Beta and last minute thoughts on a few points. :)

I'm **really** going to stop with the author's note thing now and let you get on with reading the chapter. No, really… ;)

**Playing With Fire**

**Chapter Five**

**By Mouse**

"**_All serious daring starts from within."_**

- _Harriet Beecher Stowe_

It wasn't a fair fight at all. It was quick, brutal, and efficient.

The room was silent now, save for faint whimpers coming from the girl, and the darkness was only broken by the creases of light that came through the gaps in the curtain. Some of the clips had pulled free of the rod and it hung at an odd angle. The patterns of light made the hard linoleum floor look like a wrinkled sheet.

The bodies of three men - two Caucasian, one Hispanic - lay unconscious at her feet. They'd feel horrible when they woke up but that wasn't her problem. Pain was their reward for daring to fire weapons at an X-5 and her lover. Their current status didn't bother Max in the least.

However, discovering Detective Matt Sung unconscious and tied to a chair in one corner, _did_.

She glanced at the girl, who huddled under a square folding table, like one used for playing cards, eyes wide with terror. Now that Max had finished with the men, the girl didn't move. Perhaps she hoped that she would go unnoticed. Max sensed she wasn't a combatant and posed no threat to anyone.

"It's okay," Max said, and then realized how loud her voice sounded in the small room. "I'm not going to hurt you," she tried again, softly this time. The girl didn't respond. Max stood very still and tried to look as harmless as possible. Considering she'd single-handedly taken out three fairly amateur but armed adult males in under one minute, she could understand the girl's trepidation. "Is there anyone else here?"

The girl sniffed and wiped her face with the palms of her hands. "N-no." She hiccupped and tried to clear her throat. "Just them." She squinted up at Max from her hiding spot, probably seeing nothing but a threatening shadow in the gloom. "And m-me."

"Okay." Max took a step towards her and the girl began to whimper again. "I'm not going to hurt you," she repeated patiently. She wasn't known for her patience but she had to keep the girl from panicking.

The girl stared at Max like she was a monster who had just crawled out from under her bed and threatened her soul if she disobeyed. "Are they dead?" It was only a whisper but Max heard it clearly.

"No." It was the truth. "And if they stay down, they'll continue to live." She quickly crossed to Matt, surveying his condition. His dark grey suit appeared to be mostly intact but he'd never get the bloodstains out, so it was toast. He'd been beaten, probably within the last hour, but there were signs of earlier abuse. Some of the bruises on the right side of his face had developed into a vibrant purple, and not just because the fist had been harder or the area of impact had been more vulnerable to damage. She estimated that he'd been tied to the chair for at least three hours, if not longer. The ropes at his wrists and ankles were worn slightly, as if he'd been pulling on them fiercely in a bid for escape. She could smell blood and sweat and made the inevitable conclusion.

Matt had made the call to Logan while he'd been tied to the chair.

_Shit._

Max located a light switch, above her and to the right. She flicked it on. She didn't need it but thought it might comfort the girl. The ceiling had a plain domed light fixture with a high-wattage bulb that almost bleached the room of any colour. There was a table, four wooden chairs and stacks of folded cardboard boxes and brown paper bags for pizza. A hall led off to the right. There were bowls containing remnants of Chinese take-out on the table. Max snorted. _What, they couldn't have some pizza?_ The room didn't provide any clues regarding the reason behind the trap.

She crouched in front of the detective and snapped the ropes holding his ankles.

"Matt?" No response. She hadn't really expected one but it didn't hurt to try. His head had fallen forward. Not wanting to touch him until she knew more about his injuries, she ducked down to look at the left side of his face. It was swollen and bruised as well. His bottom lip had a gash in it and there was a cut on his left temple, as if someone had pressed a knife against his skin to see if it was sharp enough. The blood from the wound covered that side of his face like a mask and had mostly dried. Parts of it shone where it was still wet.

_Shit._

She spotted his cell phone on the floor behind the chair. She grabbed it and called the last number dialled: _Logan_.

It rang five times and went to voice mail.

"_Hi. You know what to do."_

_Beep._

"Logan, it's Max. I'm in the pizza place. Matt's here and he's hurt pretty bad. There's three muscles down and the girl. She's okay." Max smiled at her in as friendly a manner as she could muster. The girl just stared in the glare of the ceiling light. Max sighed and stood, kicking the guns away from the men absently as she spoke. "I'm on Matt's phone. Call me right back."

Not five minutes had passed since she'd dived through the window.

Her next call was to emergency services, closely followed by the police: Matt's division. They weren't sure who she was or why she had Matt's phone. Caller ID was a wonderful investigative tool. They were suspicious. She identified herself and gave them an abbreviated version of events and they finally agreed to send a car over.

_Healthy attitude, I guess_, Max thought as she ended the connection. _Would _I _have believed my story? _It was still frustrating.

Max released Matt's hands and carefully lowered him to the floor. She removed his jacket then turned him onto his side in the recovery position. A brief inspection gave her some relief: no broken ribs. His pulse was fairly strong, considering, which indicated little or no internal bleeding. She wasn't a doctor but she had some field training.

Manticore had been excruciatingly thorough about many things.

She rolled his jacket and placed it under his head as a pillow. He was shivering. There was a leather coat draped over the back of one of the chairs. She liberated it and covered him, tucking the collar around his neck.

The girl made a noise. She was still under the table, shaking and crying now but obviously trying to muffle any sound. Max knelt on the floor bedside Matt and addressed her. "I'm a friend of his," she said.

No response.

"What's your name?"

"They said they'd k-kill me if I d-didn't do what they asked."

"They can't hurt you anymore," Max stated firmly. _Where the hell are her parents?_ Max thought angrily. She had enough knowledge of what a family could be like to know this wasn't right. _Who would leave someone this young alone, serving pizza late at night?_ "I'm Max."

"J-Josie."

"Are you hurt, Josie?"

Josie moved her head in a tense, quick jerk that Max took to be a 'no'.

"You heard me call for help, right?" Something like a nod resulted. "I have to check on a friend of mine. You know, the man you saw across the road?" If it were possible, the girl paled even more. Max pursed her lips in thought. She was missing too much information. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

Josie started to wail. Max shifted closer and gestured for her to come out from under the table, her arms open wide. The girl slid into Max's embrace, almost boneless, and cried harder.

It was times like this that reminded Max how different her life was when compared with the average person. What had she been doing when _she_ was fifteen? _On the run, always moving._ The threat of capture was constant and violence was a regular part of her life. The Pulse had shredded so many systems and so much hope that, for a while, her world had been chaos at every turn. She was just another street kid trying to survive the economic collapse. So many things had disappeared along with it - including her siblings.

Not everyone had her experience or training, especially when it came to dealing with emergencies, and Josie's natural shock and fear underscored that fact very clearly.

Max hugged her and stroked her hair. It reminded her of something Logan would do. The first time he'd witnessed her seizures, he'd provided a similar comfort. And how many times since then?

_Logan -_

"Josie, can you stand?" A nod against her chest. They stood together with Max's assistance, one arm around Josie's shoulder for support. She was still crying but the shaking had subsided. Max reflected that there were times when you couldn't say or do anything to reassure someone completely.

She pushed aside the curtain and looked through the take-out window. The street was dark and completely devoid of activity. She stepped closer, right up to lean on the shelf beneath the window, and looked both ways. _The Squire_ wasn't directly across from her but it was just to the right.

This location had been the perfect spot for a set-up.

With her enhanced vision, she could see the damaged bricks where bullets had impacted the wall - _where Logan had been_. She'd have to take a closer look but there wasn't time now.

Of Logan there was no sign.

_Shit._

Max couldn't leave the scene of the crime for many reasons, not the least of which was Matt's condition. Logan wouldn't want her to abandon him, or Josie, for that matter. She allowed herself a small smile and shook her head: _bleeding heart_. Logan had also instilled in her the need to ignore her "better fled than dead" response when it came to dealing with the police. Max had ID that listed her as a bodyguard, currently in the employ of one Logan Cale, for just such an occasion.

Intrepid journalists could legitimately claim protection was a necessity when sourcing a story.

They had concocted the cover ID a few months before, at three-in-the-morning after a particularly difficult journey into the seedier side of Seattle. Naturally, trouble had found them. The cops had detained the pair for an extra two hours. Convincing them of their mostly innocent status using his driver's licence and her Jam Pony ID alone had been frustrating and exhausting. At least the police knew of her now and might not be quite so surprised with her ability to subdue the bad guys as the last batch.

She hoped.

Max pressed her forehead against the glass, unconsciously mirroring her position in Logan's living room earlier in the evening. She frowned. Something was wrong.

_Where the hell is he?_

There were sirens in the distance. Max turned to the task at hand. Josie felt well enough to retrieve a mug of water and a towel from the restaurant's kitchen. Max listened to her movements carefully, ready to chase her if she bolted. In her absence, she quickly frisked the three men and memorized all the information she could glean from the contents of their pockets before putting everything back. Neither their faces nor their names were familiar.

Josie didn't bolt. Evidently, she felt safer _with_ Max than without her presence.

Max had her sit beside Matt and gently dab his face with the corner of a damp towel. It gave her something to do and someone else's well being to focus on other than her own. The detective was breathing without intervention and that was a good sign. Max's thoughts kept returning to Logan.

_He went to get the Aztek. That's it._

She managed to call his cell five more times but continued to reach his voice mail. Her irritation had turned to concern.

_Why isn't he answering his phone?_

Two vehicles arrived and the strobe of lights flickered hypnotically through the remnants of the curtain to where Matt lay. She'd have to be patient and track Logan later, once the initial grilling from the cops subsided. Trying to convince herself that he'd just neglected to keep his phone on the charger long enough, Max sat on the floor on the other side of Matt, leaned back against the wall and waited.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The sheets were soft and smelled of rosemary.

_Rosemary, for memory_, he thought fuzzily, and slowly opened his eyes.

The room swam around him. He closed his eyes tightly at the wave of nausea and swallowed before trying again. He seemed to be in a small room with high ceilings, suggesting older construction or a converted warehouse space. Heavy drapes covered part of one wall where he assumed a window would be. As a result, he didn't know if it was day or night.

He was wearing a white cotton t-shirt that was a size too large and he could feel the elastic waist of what was probably a pair of sweat pants that had been pulled too high up his torso. A single sheet and blanket, both deep green, covered his body up to his shoulders; he could feel the soft cotton against the back of his hands.

There was only the bed he lay upon, a side table and two chairs for furnishings. A brass lamp perched on the side table. It was the only illumination. Two pillows supported his head. Hanging on the wall across from him about five feet from the floor was the only decoration he could see: a carving of Christ, crucified, eyes appealing to the sky for an answer as he died on the cross.

At first he thought he was in a hospital or clinic of some kind but then the door opened and dispelled that idea immediately. He lifted his head slightly to get a better look.

A woman wearing faded denim slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. She had only opened it enough to allow her entry and he barely caught a glimpse of a dimly lit hallway. Leaning against the door, she seemed to consider him. She was thin and wan. Her hair was grey, the colour of ash, and hung straight to her shoulders. Her eyes were a pale blue as to almost be white. They looked both haunted and empty at the same time. He guessed she was somewhere in her mid-twenties but he couldn't be sure. The eyes made her seem older, perhaps. There was a chemical smell about her - _he identified formaldehyde_ - that made him want to back away reflexively.

That's when he discovered his forearms were strapped to the mattress. He didn't try to move his legs. He knew he was a paraplegic, knew he hadn't always been that way and that he'd suffered some trauma. The injury didn't currently bother him at all. What bothered him was that he couldn't recall _how_ it had happened.

_Damn._

"Hello," she said quietly. Her eyes swept his body from head to toe and back again. One eyebrow quirked upward. "Comfy?"

Her tone made his skin crawl. "What's going on?" His voice sounded rough, as if he hadn't used it in a while.

"That depends," she said, but didn't move away from the door. For that, he was grateful. Something about her was familiar but the connection was eluding him. Whatever it was made him tense. He tested the straps on his arms with a quick tug: _very secure_.

He cleared his throat. "Depends on what?"

She shrugged. "Tell me your name and I'll tell you what's going on."

"You have me strapped to a bed and you don't know my name?"

Those eyes fixed him with a look of grim amusement. "Humour me."

His head dropped back to the pillow and he swallowed, hoping he didn't vomit. In his current position, he couldn't lean over the edge. "Why should I tell you?" he asked the ceiling. The paint was cracked and peeling.

He _felt_ rather than saw her shrug again. "Because I've asked."

"Why am I in restraints?"

"Your name first."

He sighed. "Do _you_ have a name?"

"Of course."

Silence followed.

"You're not going to tell me what it is?" He thought it was a reasonable request. After all, he was confused by his surroundings and a name might help him feel better. The suspicion that he was a prisoner and not a patient had become solid as soon as he'd discovered the restraints. If he could keep her off balance, even a little bit, he might gain some advantage. He turned his head so he could see her well enough without having to lift it.

She folded her arms across her chest, looking relaxed. "Why should I?"

He smiled. Something flickered behind her eyes that he couldn't quite read. He'd have to remember that for later. "Because I've asked?" _Did his voice deepen just then?_

The woman shook her head, as if to clear it. "You think you're smart, don't you?" It wasn't an accusation so much as confirmation of knowledge already in her possession.

"I guess I do."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "And you like to get in the last word, too, don't you?"

"Probably." He hadn't given it much thought before he answered, his focus on maintaining the conversation.

"Your name."

This game was getting old very quickly. "Fine. I'm -"

A wave of panic and pain gripped him. If he hadn't been strapped down he'd have arched off the bed. A howl tore through the room like the Furies unleashed. It faded to a dull roar as he lay panting, sweat beading his skin, blood pounding in his ears. The scream had been his.

The woman smiled.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	6. Chapter 6

**March 1, 2007:** Well, at least it hasn't been a year since the last chapter… ;)

My thanks to Alaidh, my patient Beta, for giving my DA writing a lovely polish. :)

I'd like to also thank those who have been sufficiently tenacious with following this story and continue to read despite my erratic postings.

As usual, anyone you don't recognize is my own creation, and anyone familiar belongs to Mr. Cameron and Mr. Eglee.

**March 18, 2007:** Thank you, Alaidh, for Betaing this so quickly. The least I can do is try to get it posted, lol! With any luck, FFN will be smiling on me tonight. I hope the next chapter won't take me so long.

Enjoy!

**Playing With Fire**

**Chapter Six**

**By Mouse**

**"You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life."**

_- Sir Winston Churchill, British Statesman, Soldier, Author and Prime Minister of the United Kingdom During World War II, 1874 - 1965_

She was escorted to one of the waiting rooms, not for interrogation so much as a co-operative eyewitness to the crime.

_Witness and active participant_, she thought smugly, satisfied beyond proper decorum that all three of her attackers had to be sent to hospital.

The room was small with two tables: one for coffee, tea, disposable cups and so on, the other with four office style chairs, obviously intended for interviews. There was one-way glass along the far wall and she sensed they were being watched. They were probably set up to record as well.

"They go," she stated flatly, without preamble. The man dispensing coffee from an industrial urn at the small table near the door glanced at her then at the glass and gave a small twitch of his head. A few moments later and Max knew that the people had left.

She didn't ask if they'd also stopped recording. As long as they got off their asses and started investigating Logan's disappearance, she didn't care. She'd thought about calling Alec or Gem but decided that could wait until later, when she had more information for all of them to go on.

She hoped.

She sat at the other table and waited. The dark haired man finished preparing the coffees and walked leisurely towards her. His navy suit was well tailored in a simple classic cut but it wasn't expensive. He wore a watch but Max noted it wasn't fancy, the face plain with Roman numerals and a second hand. His nails didn't scream 'manicure' and his hair looked like it had probably needed a trim two weeks ago. She guessed he was just over six feet tall and somewhere in his mid to late thirties.

Nothing about him said 'cop-on-the-take' and his genuine concern and barely contained anger over the attack on Matt Sung had already indicated he might be one of the good guys. He had listened to her story and asked all kinds of questions, most of which were even pertinent to the circumstances. He held himself straight but not stiffly and his movements demonstrated an economy of motion and sense of grace she usually didn't associate with cops. She'd only been observing him for just over two hours but had yet to see him in any room where he didn't have a clear view of the door and unimpeded access to his gun.

"So," she said, accepting one of the cups, "for the _third_ time, that's all I've got, Detective Moratelli."

A pity he seemed to think she was withholding information - which, of course, to be fair, she was. Any connection with Eyes Only had yet to be mentioned.

"Somehow," he said casually, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of his coffee, "I doubt that very much."

Of all the lawmen in Seattle, she had to be assigned one that was actually good at his job.

Max allowed a small sigh to escape and glanced at her watch: _almost one-in-the-morning_. At least things were moving more swiftly than on previous occasions. He stared at her frankly with sharp blue eyes. She sipped her own coffee, wishing it was in a ceramic mug instead of Styrofoam, and stared right back at him. She shouldn't complain, really. 'Smart' meant more questions but also usually resulted in more action.

Detective Clemente, who had survived the events and tensions around the days of Terminal City, was smart and fit under the general category of 'ally' in her mind. Max had established a rapport with Clemente, albeit strained on more than one occasion, and if he were on the case, she wouldn't have to provide much in the way of back-story to bring him up to speed. He wasn't available, though. At her inquiry, Detective Moratelli had muttered something to do with a well-deserved vacation in the Poconos with his family.

_Figures._

The officers who had arrived in response to her call had been wary of her but could tell that she meant no harm to her two charges and was insistent about their welfare. Detective Moratelli and his partner, a short black woman named Jones wearing a worn, black suit, had arrived as the paramedics were checking Matt's vital signs and asking Max questions about his injuries.

Matt Sung was obviously going to the hospital and Josie went as well, just to ensure she was unharmed. Max hoped someone had called her parents and were currently reading them the riot act. After her initial statement, she hadn't concealed her concern at having a teenage girl left alone at a late-night take-out pizza joint.

Detective Moratelli had looked grim at the news and agreed. She'd given him bonus points on the spot.

Officers had been dispatched to the hospital so that statements could be taken. She doubted the bad guys would be very co-operative, assuming they were conscious yet. In Matt's case, she suspected he wouldn't be coherent for some time. And Josie… By now, with any luck, she'd been seen by a counsellor and was asleep under the watchful care of a decent doctor.

_Not my problem anymore._

She'd kept them safe and now it was up to the professionals. The paramedics had complimented her on her front-line first aid. For all that she wasn't concerned, one way or the other, what people thought of her, it was a refreshing change. Max had felt good about that, briefly thinking that for all the hell she'd been through with Manticore, at least some of her training promoted the protection of life.

The station had been a slightly different story.

She hadn't been treated poorly but the reception had been cool. Not that anyone had been openly rude, though the desk sergeant had treaded dangerously close to testing her diplomatic resolve. She recognized some of the faces from her interaction with the force during her time in Terminal City and through a few unfortunate incidents since then. Perhaps it was just a general sense of unease, with her status as a transgenic known to the public now, or maybe it was simply a weary knowledge that if Max was involved then so was that damn journalist, Logan Cale, and _that_ meant piles of paperwork.

At least there was coffee.

_Logan would appreciate the coffee._ That sent her frowning.

"You said we'd get this part done then focus on finding Mr. Cale," Max stated firmly. "I haven't seen any progress on that yet, Detective."

He stifled a yawn and looked disdainfully at his Styrofoam cup. "Please, call me Angelino."

"'Angelino'?"

"'Angelino Giovanni Moratelli'." He retrieved his ID badge from a pocket inside his jacket. She'd noticed his name the first time, when he'd shown it at the scene, but decided not to comment. If he wanted to talk, let him get it over with so they could move on. "A mouthful, isn't it? Barely fits on the card." He tucked his badge back into his pocket and shrugged. "I was the second son, so I was named after my maternal grandfather and my godfather, of course."

"Of course." She could do polite. Yeah.

He gave her a quick smile. "Can't help it if the nick-name sounds kinda cheesy, though."

That didn't take much imagination. "Let me guess: 'Angel'?"

His smile widened. "Yep."

_It wasn't a bad smile at all_, Max thought. Not that it mattered. Either he was going to help her or he wasn't and a pretty face wouldn't make things go smoother. "That's a bit much, isn't it?"

"That's what the ladies tell me."

She shook her head, trying to figure him out. He wasn't actually flirting with her but the lines were emerging with practised ease. _Maybe he usually plays the 'good cop' -_

"You're right," she said, providing a tight smile in return. "It _is_ kinda stupid."

Angelino nodded. "I like someone who calls 'em as they seem 'em."

Max raised her eyebrows and wondered if she was being subtle. "_Real_-ly?"

He laughed and shook his head. "Don't bat your lashes at me, Ms. Guevara. I've read your file and know damn well that you probably know fifteen ways to kill me with your pinky finger."

"You're not from around here, are you?"

"Does it show? New York City, but I've travelled a lot and have been out west for ten years now. Didn't think I still had much of an accent."

"Oh, you don't, not really. It's just that you sound so happy about the idea of being in a room with a transgenic soldier and I don't get that a lot."

He held up his free hand in mock surrender. "Don't get me wrong. I _don't_ need you to demonstrate." He leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on the table. "I like my life. My 'To Do' list is so long, I'll never die." His smile dissolved. "I'd just like to cut to the chase, and telling the desk sergeant that you had this sudden craving for pizza at ten at night, in a completely different sector from your apartment, _isn't_ a story I'm going to buy."

Max smirked. "I said _that_ as a joke. The desk sergeant's a prick. My initial statement stands."

"That Matt called you about a hot story and said you had to meet him at a closed pub?"

She pursed her lips. "Noooo, that Matt called _Mr. Cale_ and said he needed to meet him at a pub that we didn't know was closed until we got there. You _were_ paying attention before, right? I see you don't take notes."

"I don't need to." He tapped his skull with his forefinger. "Mind like a steel trap." Max resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Some people change their stories by now. Just checking. If what you say is true then Matt'll clear you."

"You're gonna wait that long? I don't think he's talkin' to anyone tonight, _Angelino_, and the longer we wait, the colder Logan's trail becomes."

"Now it's 'Logan', is it?"

Her patience was running low. She was pleased she'd made it this far without assaulting anyone.

"This isn't a game, Detective. If you've read my file, you know I'm not just his bodyguard." She leaned into his personal space so quickly that his eyes widened and she could tell he had to fight the urge to pull back. He held his ground, though. _Good for him._ "So who's not 'cutting to the chase' now?"

"Point taken, Ms. Guevara."

She pulled back and sighed. "It's Max."

"Okay, _Max_. We have a blue-grey Aztek with no sign of tampering or attempted entry, bullet holes in a brick building across from the pizza take-out, and a man in a wheelchair who won't return his calls and has managed to elude our patrol cars."

"He was taken," she stated firmly, and drained the rest of her coffee. She'd said that eight times so far, not that anyone else was probably counting.

"So you've said. Eight times now."

_Okay, maybe he does have a mind like a steel trap -_

"And we're sittin' here, havin' a coffee and gettin' _what_ done about it, exactly?"

His smile returned. "The long arm of the law never rests."

Max did roll her eyes this time. She extended her empty cup. "You're gonna have to ply me with more coffee and maybe a bagel or somethin' if you want me _not_ to choke on lines like that."

He chuckled and took her cup, moving to the table to provide both of them with a refill. "I'll see what I can do about the bagel." There was a pause in conversation. Max could imagine various scenarios regarding Logan's current status, none of which were positive. She absently noted that Moratelli took his coffee with double cream, double sugar. She was aware he was reaching for a stir stick and generally puttering but her mind was focussed on the horrific idea that Logan's body had been stripped of cash and dumped in a ditch outside of Seattle. She started when the Styrofoam cup appeared in front of her. She looked up at the detective and silently accepted it. His expression indicated that he could guess at the reason for her distraction.

"Thanks," she finally managed.

"I should be thanking you."

"How so?"

He shrugged and sat down. "You're _here_. Do you really need to be here right now, Max, or could you be out there, searching for him more effectively by yourself? You stayed with Matt and the girl. I can't thank you enough for that. You're letting me check your story and have uniforms poke about the nearby streets and alleys." He sipped his coffee and made a face. "Old," he muttered then returned his focus back to her. "I don't know anything more than what's in your file and the station's grapevine, but you're a trained soldier, possibly for special ops or something, with an edge not found in the average citizen. And you have contacts, I'm sure." A reference to her fellow transgenics? Probably. "You don't really need any of us, do you?"

She pursed her lips. 'Smart' wasn't sufficient for this one. "I can't do it all myself," she offered cautiously. "It helps to have back-up."

He nodded solemnly, the face of personal experience. "That it does."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're ex-military."

"Yes, ma'am. Police Corps."

"_Don't_ call me 'ma'am'."

"Yes, _sir_."

"What're you doin' in Seattle?"

"It's where the dart landed." Max raised an eyebrow so he elaborated. "It's relatively quiet and people aren't shooting at me all the time."

"You're a _cop_, Moratelli. There'll always be someone who hates cops."

"More hate the military. Trust me on that."

Max snorted. "This isn't being recorded, is it?"

He laughed. "You're kidding, right?"

"You've got some clout?"

"I've only been here a few months. Sometimes they follow my lead. I'm not in Matt's league."

"But you're close."

"You're guessing, and leading the witness. That's _my_ job."

"About Logan?"

He sobered. "Given the amount of time they _didn't_ have, any potential abductor would have to render him unconscious pretty fast. Chloroform or maybe an injection like the anaesthetics used for surgery. Something fast. Then load him _and_ the wheelchair into a van and drive off sedately so they don't draw any attention to themselves. No squealing tires, no tracks. Clean." He checked his watch. "Forensics is doing their thing at the site as we speak."

"Chloroform. Not a bad theory."

"I have my moments."

"These guys were good. I didn't see or hear anything."

"You were kinda busy," the detective pointed out.

Max shrugged. "I can multi-task."

"I'll bet you can," he murmured.

Max stared at him then burst out laughing. "Okay, that wasn't bad but you can save it for someone else."

Moratelli's grin returned. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

"I don't." Max stood and tossed her empty cup into the trashcan. " I _can_ blame you if we _don't_ do something, though. Let's get that bagel and move."

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He must have fallen asleep at some point.

There was grit in his eyes but his arms were still strapped to the bed so he couldn't do much about it. He blinked rapidly, clearing his vision as best he could. The light wasn't on anymore. There was a faint halo around the drapes, as if there might be daylight beyond, and a sliver of light coming from under the door. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious.

He could still smell rosemary.

Turning his head slowly, he tried to loosen his cramped neck muscles and absorb as much information as possible, given the circumstances. Nothing seemed to have changed about his surroundings. The shapes he could see matched what he recalled of the room earlier. The faint smell of formaldehyde lingered but he sensed he was alone.

The pale girl hadn't stayed. He didn't know her name, but worse still, he didn't know his own.

He listened for anything that would tell him something about his location. The air was fairly fresh, which indicated there was some kind of circulation system. The curtains weren't moving, so there was probably a vent in the floor or ceiling somewhere else. There was no tick of a clock, no snatch of a radio or television program, no murmurs of conversation. He couldn't hear the hum of a generator or the sound of traffic at all. He could be near the bay but far enough away that the lapping of water against the docks or the shore wasn't audible. After a few moments, there was one thing he could make out, distant but distinctive.

_Wind chimes._

High-pitched and jangled, like a child's music box, so metal rather than wood, and thin with varying lengths, like tiny flutes. He knew the type. A few stalls in the market sold all kinds of wind chimes, from cartoon characters to wildlife, for baby cribs to balconies to -

He gasped, startled by the revelation. _Market._ He had memories of being in a market, shopping for food with a beautiful young woman. Her name. _What is her name?_

Frustrated, he closed his eyes and strained to catch anything else, somehow able to ignore the distracting sounds of his breathing and the beating of his heart.

_There._

It was a hum. A hum that was so close at hand, he was amazed that he hadn't heard it sooner. Technology, to his right and up.

Video camera.

_What?_ he thought wryly. _They think I'm going to break free and run away?_

Somehow, being monitored, maybe even recorded for later viewing, was almost worse than being strapped to the bed. It was an invasion of privacy that made him feel sick. Another precious piece of information that provided some insight into who he was beyond the fog that smothered his mind.

_Drugs. It must be drugs. But who would do this and why me?_

Then something else intruded. It was a familiar smell and one his senses responded to positively: _coffee_. He could smell coffee and it was getting stronger.

Someone was coming.

He kept his eyes closed and tried to relax. If the camera had infrared night vision capabilities, then whoever was watching would know he'd opened his eyes a few minutes before. If he could make them think he'd fallen asleep again -

The door opened. Light pressed against his eyelids and the scent of formaldehyde increased but he didn't react. The door closed. Someone walked towards the small side table and switched on the lamp. He heard a soft clunk as a mug was placed on the wooden surface.

"Hello." He recognized the voice: the girl with the ghostly appearance. "I know you're awake and thought you'd like some coffee."

He sighed softly and opened his eyes, squinting up at her. She was wearing the same outfit as when he'd last seen her. "Can't a guy get some sleep around here?"

"You _have_ slept, silly," she said, her tone teasing but her expression mostly blank. She sat carefully on the edge of the bed, smoothing the covers over his legs. "Don't you want some coffee?"

"Hard to drink it when my arms are bolted down," he replied, sounding quite civilized, he thought.

"I'll let you go if you promise to be good."

He smiled and said through gritted teeth, "Not like I'll get far on foot."

She laughed. It was like watching a doll temporarily granted the flesh of a real girl. He forced the fear that tugged at him to one side and kept his smile steady.

"I'm glad you have a sense of humour," she said, and pulled back the covers just enough to slide two bolts free from the cuff that secured his right arm. He tried to lift it but discovered he was too weak. She moved his arm for him, arranging it so it didn't hang over the edge. "There, that's better, isn't it?" She stood and repeated the movements with the other arm, setting him free and placing it gently on the mattress.

He flexed his fingers. "Better," he agreed.

"Can you sit up?"

_Good question._ He slid his arms back but couldn't push himself upright. A thin layer of sweat covered him before he stopped trying. "Why am I so weak?"

"You've been sick," she said, leaning over him and wrapping one arm around his upper body, pulling it effortlessly to meet hers. She held him, as if he were a child, while her free hand rearranged the pillows. Then he was released. It left him at a forty-five degree angle, but if he could get the coffee to his lips it would at least allow him to swallow without too much difficulty.

_But I can't trust it isn't drugged or poisoned -_

"Sick?"

"Yeah, but you're much better now." She sat on the edge of the bed once more. "It's a good thing you're strong."

"What did I have?"

"Bronchitis, and it tried to become pneumonia." Her delivery was neither too quick nor too slow but it didn't really matter. He knew she was lying.

"That's why it hurts to breathe?"

"Probably." She smoothed the covers over his legs again, following her hand with her eyes. "But I'm not a doctor."

"I'll need help with my coffee."

She paused then reached for the mug and held it to his lips. It was black. The heat prickled his skin. If she spilled any on him, he'd have third-degree burns.

"It's too hot," he warned. Drugged or not, he couldn't safely drink it.

She paused and seemed to consider his statement, locking her pale eyes with his. "I thought you wanted some."

He swallowed. "It's too hot," he repeated. "I couldn't tell until it was closer."

"So… you don't want it anymore?"

He wasn't sure if she was being coy or cruel or both. "I want it to cool down a bit before I try it. Okay?"

She returned the mug to the side table then used both hands to smooth the covers over his chest, repeating the motion. It was intimate and obsessive and driving him mad. He found enough strength to move onto his elbows and catch hold of her wrists with his hands, holding them still. Her skin felt cool to the touch, like plastic.

"What is my name?" She smiled but didn't answer. He hoped he was keeping his voice even. "What about your name? Are you going to tell me that?" She shook her head and stood abruptly. His hands lost their grip on her wrists.

"Someone else will be visiting today. You can ask them." Her smile faded. "You might not like the answer, though."

"I'll take my chances."

Her expression seemed thoughtful at that. "I knew you would," she stated quietly and left the room without looking back.

His arms were shaking from the strain. He relaxed them and let his upper body be supported by the pillows once more. Unable to stay conscious, despite the headache that had started, he slid into a restless sleep.

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	7. Chapter 7

**March 26, 2007:** And the mystery continues… :)

**Brief Note:** Detective Moratelli is not to be confused with any other characters. He's my own creation and I love him. ;)

**On a side note:** 'Thoughts in the Dark' and any other of my unfinished stories have _not_ been abandoned. My time is limited for writing at the moment and the Muse has returned me to _this_ story. So here I am.

My thanks to Alaidh, the Almighty Beta, for her continuing input and support. :)

My thanks to those of you who take the time to read and those who also review. Your feedback is greatly appreciated. :)

Enjoy!

**Playing With Fire**

**Chapter Seven**

**By Mouse**

"_**A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is braver five minutes longer."**_

_- Ralph Waldo Emerson, U.S. Poet, Essayist and Lecturer, 1803 – 1882_

The Seattle drizzle was almost refreshing after the closed offices of the police station, with its smells of stale coffee, competing air fresheners and lingering smoke from the cluster of officers huddled outside the back door, feeding their addiction on the December morning.

Detective Angelino Giovanni Moratelli drove a modest four-door Toyota Corolla. It was clean and didn't smell like pine. His partner, Detective Sue Jones, sat straight in the passenger seat with one hand firmly gripping the door as they took another tight corner. Max sat in the back and watched the buildings whiz by. Moratelli kept a fast pace and blurred through the checkpoint procedures with frightening efficiency. She envied his ability to do so, though as a Jam Pony messenger, she still had a better chance of not being hassled than the average citizen.

The street where Max and Logan had arrived to meet Matt Sung looked much the same as it had three hours earlier, only there was more activity this time. About a dozen uniforms and forensic experts milled about in rain ponchos with reflective orange stripes and mostly ineffective hoods. The former kept the curious from crossing the yellow caution tape and compromising the scene, fielding the inevitable questions with uninformative answers. The latter grumbled about the weather and scraped and poked and bagged items of potential interest. There weren't many gawkers but it never ceased to amaze Max that even at two in the morning, people would emerge from the safety of their homes to stand in the drizzle and watch the show.

Detective Jones sighed at the rain and left them to see if anyone in the small crowd had witnessed anything suspicious. Detective Moratelli took a deep breath, let it out slowly and walked briskly towards the scene, hands in the pockets of his trench coat. Max strode beside him, keeping up despite the detective's long legs.

"What'cha got, Dennis?" he asked as they approached. A man had just ducked under the caution tape but turned upon hearing his name. Max assumed he was in charge of the forensic team. He appeared to be somewhere in his fifties with very few distinguishing features. Max noted the bland face and greying hair and the nicotine stains between the forefinger and index finger of his right hand. He wasn't smiling. She idly wondered if his face had forgotten how.

"Who's she?" he asked, nodding towards Max, suspicion obvious in his tone. "No girlfriends are allowed to tag along on these things, Moratelli. You know the rules."

Max remained silent. This was Moratelli's show and she'd agreed to let him do his job without any unnecessary interference. The look he'd given her meant he'd understood that she wasn't going to be patient for long.

One of the other ponchoed specialists, a blonde woman shining a flashlight at the brick wall behind 'Dennis', turned and frowned slightly upon seeing them. Her study of the wall seemed second in importance to their arrival.

"I know about the rules," Moratelli responded amiably. "And I break 'em when I need to, like everyone else, but she's not my girlfriend." He gestured briefly with a wave of his hand from one to the other. "Max? Dennis. Dennis? Max. She's assisting with the investigation."

"Says who?" asked the blonde woman.

Max noted two other specialists who were working nearby exchange a look. The young black man had a very lean face and large eyes. He sighed and returned to his scrutiny of the ground near the pub. The Asian woman just shook her head, picked up a piece of paper with a pair of tongs and slipped it into a plastic bag before glancing over at Max and rolling her eyes. Max had the distinct impression that Moratelli was still too recent to the division to get the level of cooperation he was probably used to, and that he faced some resistance on a regular basis.

Moratelli just smiled his Hollywood smile. Max could tell it didn't reach his eyes. "Says me, Christine," he responded easily. "Problem? Talk to the Captain."

Christine was thin and taller than Max. Her distinguishing features included a pert little nose and eyes that were set widely apart. She wasn't smiling, either, and regarded Max with a look that could be interpreted as that of a jealous girlfriend. "That won't be necessary," she mumbled.

"I could use another pair of eyes over here," the Asian woman stated bluntly, standing and moving towards the wall Christine had abandoned.

"I'm on it," Max said, and darted under the caution tape. As she followed, she kept part of her focus on the conversation behind her.

"You treating this as a 'missing persons'?" Dennis asked.

"I'm treating it as an 'abduction'," Moratelli said.

"Not gonna find much here," Dennis grumbled.

"Whatever you _can_ find would be greatly appreciated."

Dennis grunted and moved away. Max could see him with her peripheral vision as he walked towards a police car where Detective Jones was taking statements.

"Don't mind Christine," the Asian woman said quietly, not looking at Max. Her accent reminded Max of a popular tea commercial she'd seen recently. _British. Yeah, that's it._

Max focussed on her and smiled. "Why would I?"

"She's all possessive of Angel - _Detective Moratelli_," she added hastily. "Been trying to get a date with him since he got here. Drives us all spare."

"'Spare'?"

The woman laughed and faced her then. Her black hair was plastered to the skin on either side of her face from the rain. She was about the same height as Max, which was a nice break after looking up at Moratelli for the last few hours. "Mad," she elaborated. "Crazy, barmy, nuts. You know?"

Max smiled. "I get it." She offered her hand. "I'm Max."

The woman smiled in return but held up her gloved hands, one still holding the plastic bag and the other holding a flashlight. "I'm Misaki, but I suggest we leave the handshake for now."

"Deal. And I'm not his girlfriend."

"I know." She met Max's gaze and her smile faded. "You're Max Guevara, the body guard for the missing journalist."

"Yeah." Max stared at the pitted bricks and tried not to think about some of the worse scenarios when it came to Logan's status.

"We'll find him," Misaki said quietly, trying to be reassuring.

Max nodded and cleared her throat. "So, you're looking at the wall?"

"I'm looking at the bullet holes," Misaki said. _Of course_, Max thought, _an interesting distinction._ She hadn't thought otherwise but hadn't expressed herself properly. _So damn worried about Logan that I can't think straight. Great. Get your act together, Max. He needs you functional._

Misaki shone her flashlight over the brick. "Hoping for an actual _bullet_, which would be nice, so we can link it with those hoodlums you subdued."

"'Hoodlum'. That sounds _way_ too polite a term for those thugs."

"'Thugs'. Sounds like a word Moratelli would use."

Max shrugged and scanned the wall, using her enhanced vision for any trace of a ricochet point or glint of metal. "I guess it's an American thing."

"I suppose so."

Misaki started talking about slang words, Cockney rhymes and something about 'apples and pears'. Behind them, Christine was speaking quietly with the handsome detective. Max knew she shouldn't be able to hear what was being said but nothing much slipped by an X-5. If this Christine woman was going to be a thorn in Moratelli's side, she might slow down the investigation just to spite him. This was an unpleasant possibility but Max would ensure that nothing interfered with finding Logan.

"You haven't returned my calls," Christine said, her voice a brittle whisper.

"And I've told you I won't," Moratelli stated firmly. "Now let it go."

"All I want is to go for a drink with you. That's all."

"That's not what your last message said. It was quite explicit."

"Am I not _good_ enough for you? Is that it?"

"We're on the clock here, Christine. We aren't going to have this conversation."

"Does that mean we _will_ have this conversation when we're _not_ on the clock?"

"No."

"You're a bastard."

"And _you_ don't know the meaning of the word 'no'." His voice sounded a bit frayed but he stood his ground. "I can only say 'no' so many times and remain polite. Don't push it."

"Or you'll do _what_?"

Max looked over her shoulder. Christine had placed herself in Moratelli's personal space. It was obvious from his straight posture that he wasn't comfortable. Well, it was obvious to Max and if Christine noticed she didn't seem to care.

"He'll be fine," Misaki whispered beside her, probably realizing she was carrying all of the conversation and following Max's gaze. "Christine's been trying to wear him down but I doubt it'll work. He used to be with the Police Corps, you know. Survived the riots in Los Angeles after the Pulse." She snorted. "As if he'd be intimidated by _her_."

"I'm not interested," Moratelli stated, clearly and calmly, Max thought, considering. "Get over it and move on."

"I could file a complaint. Tell the Captain you've been harassing me. Slick Italian cop, thinks he's _so_ hot -"

Max watched as Moratelli turned abruptly and headed towards her, leaving Christine talking to herself.

"Told you," Misaki said, apparently pleased by her prediction.

"So you did." Max waited until the detective joined them before directing the conversation towards the trajectory of the bullets and the merits of fighting without resorting to the use of guns.

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He was dreaming about sunlight and huge windows that faced the city. A young woman sat across from him. She had dark hair and brown eyes and smooth skin. She was smiling. Her top was red and he absently wondered if he was supposed to be able to dream in colour. The woman reached across the table between them and moved a chess piece on the board. He had the impression that his defeat was at hand.

"Are you even trying?" she asked teasingly, her voice echoing faintly the way voices didn't in real life.

He looked blankly at the board, certain that some of the pieces didn't belong in a game of chess - especially the railroads and the candlestick - then back to her. "Of course I'm trying." At least, he hoped that's what he said. The dream flickered.

"You don't even know your name," she pointed out, and the game instantly became unimportant.

"I _want_ to know my name."

She arched one delicate eyebrow. "Have you _tried_?"

"It - It hurts to think."

She smiled smugly. "Then it's working."

"What's working?"

The woman shrugged and picked up a bishop, twisting it between her fingers. He didn't like the way the little figure struggled, robes flapping. He sighed and tried again. "Do _you_ know my name?"

She laughed. "Sure."

"Aren't you going to tell me?"

Her smile froze. "I can't. They won't let me."

"_Who_ won't let you?"

"I'm not in control here." She sounded apologetic. "I have a job to do."

"I know you," he stated firmly, and realized that he did know her.

_Intimately._

"You know this _form_, but this isn't _me_. I'm just borrowing her because this is _your_ dream and I'm in your head right now, see? But you can't tell _anyone_, understand?"

Truly puzzled, he asked, "Why?"

"Just _don't_ tell them _anything_." The woman's face had turned serious, her voice urgent. "You _can't_ tell them that I've talked to you, okay? _Okay?_"

He didn't understand. "What are you doing in my head?"

Her face moved in close and she whispered, "Anything they tell me to."

He woke with a gasp of pain, his skin clammy, his head pounding. He opened his eyes and became aware of several people in the room. The two at the end of the bed were shadowed because there was only the small lamp to provide illumination. The figure to his right shrank away immediately, withdrawing a hand that had been placed on his head. He caught sight of the young man's face in profile: tired, scared. There was no recognition. He opened his mouth to ask who he was but the young man stood abruptly and left.

"Good to see you conscious," a man's voice said. His interest sounded forced, as if the man was reading a script where the line was to be delivered 'cheerfully'. He tried to identify which of the two remaining people had spoken, wishing his vision wasn't blurry. He licked his lips. They were dry and his throat was parched and he'd kill for some ice chips.

"Who are you?"

"We were concerned when you became ill -"

"_Who are you?"_

"There's no need to yell, Tim." This came from the figure on the left: a woman. "Your father's just been worried about you. We all have."

That stopped him. It didn't sound right. _My father? No, he can't be my father, he -_

_Tim. She called me 'Tim'. Is that… my name?_

"Don't stress him, Margaret," the man said, his tone placating. "He isn't himself yet."

"At least the fever has broken." She sounded genuinely relieved. "The doctor wasn't sure how long it would take."

"Maybe this is a sign that he's through the worst of it?"

He cleared his throat as best he could. "Um, _he's_ in the room, actually," he reminded them. "Could I please have some water?"

Both of them moved: the man for the door, the woman for the bed.

"I'm _so_ sorry, dear -"

"Of course, Tim. I'll just be a sec."

The man left, and the woman -

She was probably in her early sixties, simply dressed in a white t-shirt and matching burgundy jogging pants and jacket. Her grey hair was short, her face clean of make-up. She smiled tentatively as she sat on the edge of the bed and lifted a hand to stroke through his hair. He didn't flinch but watched her, overwhelmed with some emotion he couldn't name. There was an ache that surged to the fore and made his chest hurt. Only one word managed to reach his lips.

"Mom?"

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The bagel Moratelli had given her was delicious - lightly toasted, even, with just enough cream cheese to enhance the experience. She'd eaten it so quickly that, with a flourish, he'd produced another one. Max had no idea where he was getting fresh bagels at this time of the morning but she was very grateful. She suspected the crumpled paper bag on the back seat behind him wasn't bottomless, but couldn't help but wonder how many bagels remained.

"Three," he said between bites of his own bagel as they waited for Detective Jones to return.

"Three what?"

"Bagels." He licked his lips and sighed contentedly. "In the brown bag." His eyes slid sideways to look at her and a smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. "You wanted to know, didn't you?"

It was the first real smile she'd seen since his conversation with Christine.

"Maybe, but I hadn't asked yet."

"Maury has the best around." He took another bite. "Who wouldn't want another one?"

Max sipped at the remnants of her coffee. It was cold but they didn't have anything else to drink. "So, what is this Maury guy doin', makin' bagels at this time of the morning'?"

"A very good job, don't'cha think?" Moratelli finished his bagel and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. He dragged his other hand through his still damp hair and squinted out the windshield. "Where the hell is she?"

They were taking a break from the weather, having walked the scene repeatedly and searched the wall with Misaki for evidence. Max had spotted the bullet, about five feet above their heads, lodged in a brick. It must have ricocheted and miraculously hit the wall and not Logan.

"I'll boost you," Moratelli had said, and then crouched down so she could climb onto his shoulders. Once he'd straightened, she'd stood and his hands had braced her calves. It hadn't felt at all unusual, though she knew some people had gathered to watch. Moratelli was still the new guy and she didn't know how many were aware of her status as a transgenic. Separately, they were a curiosity. Together, they probably resembled the opening scene of a circus act. She'd dug the bullet out using a pair of pliers from a toolbox in the back of Moratelli's Toyota while Misaki directed the flashlight upwards. The young black man, whose name was Don, had waited at the ready, insisting that Max was going to fall and he'd be there to catch her.

Moratelli had, for the most part, ignored the attention.

"I'm jumping down," Max had called, and made sure that Misaki had pulled her anxious co-worker to one side before dismounting.

"Good work," Moratelli had said, and held out an evidence bag. No ooohing or ahhing from him. "I'll have to call you 'Supergirl'."

Max had snorted. "Who does that make _you_? Batman?" Moratelli had laughed so hard, he had to bend over and rest his hands on his thighs to catch his breath. Misaki and Don had regarded both of them warily but said nothing.

A figure moved in the dark, hurrying in their direction and bringing her back to the present. The poncho with the orange stripe reflected nicely in the few streetlights that were working.

"Here she comes," Max said, and twisted in her seat to open the door behind her. Detective Jones ducked inside and pulled the door shut.

"Thanks," she said, a little breathless. She smiled as she lifted her poncho to reveal a cardboard tray of fresh coffees.

Moratelli had turned to greet her and stopped, his expression shifting to reverence. "Marry me, Sue?"

"No," she replied smoothly, as if he asked her on a regular basis. She passed a paper cup to Max before giving one to her partner.

"Think about it?"

She sighed and inhaled her coffee as if it was oxygen. "I've already got one man worshipping me," she said matter-of-factly. "I don't need two." Then she used her free hand to pass him a small evidence bag. Moratelli switched on the interior light and squinted at the contents.

"Change," he stated unnecessarily, but Max could hear the edge of frustration in his voice. "Could be from anyone."

"Could've fallen out of Logan's pocket," Max suggested. "We _were_ going to buy some slices of pizza."

"Sure." He sighed, shaking the bag. The coins jingled mutely. "And it could've fallen out of _my_ pocket last Thursday when we investigated an assault charge two blocks over and I bought pizza from the same take-out place."

"Was the girl working that night?" Max could see Josie's terrified face as clearly as if she were sitting in front of her.

He grimaced. "No. It was a man. Reminded me of my Uncle Louis."

"Is she okay?"

"Far as I know."

"Can't be your change, Angel," Sue stated.

"From last Thursday? Uh-uh. Not in _this_ neighbourhood."

"Not in _any_ neighbourhood."

"Just no direct connection to Logan Cale."

Max took a long swig of her coffee. "This isn't bad. Thanks, by the way."

Sue shrugged. "No problem."

"Where'd you get it?"

"Same place I got the bagels," Moratelli said. He switched off the light and handed the bag of coins back to his partner, blowing gently on his hot coffee. "Maury has a mobile snack van. He's just around the corner over there." Moratelli gestured vaguely in the direction of the yellow caution tape a block away from where they were parked. "He can't always come to a scene but he tries. He likes to be part of the fight, you know?"

"He comes when _you_ call," Sue pointed out.

Moratelli sighed. "He's a friend of a friend."

Max smiled. "I thought you hadn't been in Seattle long?"

"I haven't, but I don't waste time when it comes to the important stuff."

"Like bagels and hot coffee at weird hours?"

"Yeah." He glanced back at Sue. "Have they got anything else?"

"They've sent the bullet in."

The police needed definitive evidence in order to pursue the case properly but Max knew what they'd find when it came to the ballistics test. "So, what's the next step?"

"Sleep," Sue murmured into her coffee.

"Well," Moratelli began brightly, "let's check the time." He made a great show of consulting his watch. "It is now three-seventeen in the morning. The only places open are twenty-four-hour food huts, illegal gambling rooms, and convenience stores which carry nothing that's really convenient." He grinned. "We could play 'I, Spy'."

A cell phone trilled. Moratelli held his coffee very still while his other hand reached for his trench coat pocket.

"Yeah," he said, all business.

Max could hear the person on the other end of the conversation but kept her expression neutral.

"_Matt's awake,"_ a tired male voice announced. _"You wanted to know the minute he was."_

"I did, and thanks. On my way." He snapped his phone shut and placed it back in his pocket. His coffee slid into a holder between the seats as he started the engine. Behind Max, Sue scrambled to pull her seatbelt on and not spill her coffee. "Matt's awake," he said over his shoulder to his partner. He slid a look at Max as she calmly buckled up. The Toyota pulled away from the curb and accelerated down the street. "But you already knew that, didn't you, Supergirl?"

"I heard when you heard, Batman," Max said evenly, and took another sip of her coffee as they made best possible speed to the hospital.

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	8. Chapter 8

**March 29, 2007:** And another chapter has developed. :)

My thanks to Alaidh for her wonderful Beta work. You help me tell the story well, hun.

My thanks to those who read and to those who review as well. I appreciate your feedback and your patience with the rather erratic posting of this story.

**April 7, 2007:** I'm going to try posting this now. I hope the long weekend is treating everyone well. Enjoy!

**Playing With Fire**

**Chapter Eight**

**By Mouse**

"**_All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."_**

_- Havelock Ellis, British Psychologist and Author, 1859 - 1939_

The woman in the jogging suit sighed, her smile widening.

"It's good to have you back, Tim," she said quietly. Her hand continued to stroke his hair.

"How long have I been out of it?" he asked, not sure what to believe. She was familiar and there were echoes of a face he thought he knew, but after what the dream woman had told him, he wasn't going to believe everything he encountered in the waking world, for he firmly believed that, though it had been a dream, it had also been a warning.

_Trust your instincts._

The man who now thought of himself as 'Tim' decided that more information was required and he'd have to play along in order to achieve this goal.

"Your fever lasted for several days," the woman said, "but you've been sick for almost a month. We thought it was just a cold at first then you got the lung infection." She stood and fiddled with his blanket, making sure it covered his legs and was tucked in around the mattress. "Then the doctor treated your bronchitis and that tried to become -"

"Pneumonia," he interjected, reaching for her hand to still her movements. "I know. The girl told me."

The woman stopped and looked at him, letting him take one of her hands. "The girl?"

"With grey hair and pale skin." He found a smile that he hoped would seem natural. The faint hum of the video camera still burned in the background. It reminded him why he shouldn't trust these people. "Is she okay? She's white as a sheet."

"Heather? She's fine." The woman sat on the edge of the bed again and rubbed his palm absently with her thumb. It seemed like a perfectly natural thing to do, especially if this was his mother, only he had no memories of this woman at all. There was a general feel to her that said 'mother' but there was no way for him to determine if his initial reaction was actually correct.

_Yet._

And as much as he might wish the comfort of knowing that she _was_ his mother, she hadn't actually confirmed it. He wasn't going to say he thought otherwise.

"Why is she so pale? It's like…" He struggled to find the right words, staring at the ceiling as if it would help clear his thoughts. "…like the colour has been leached out of her."

_Where the hell had that come from?_

The woman laughed, though it seemed a bit strained. "Now that's the Tim I know," she said, giving his hand a quick squeeze before letting it go. "Always the poet."

_Quite the change of topic -_

"What?"

The door opened and the man returned. He approached the bed, looking chagrined. "Sorry I didn't think of this earlier, son," he said, and extended his hand. It contained a plastic bottle of water with a twist on cap. "I hope this helps." The man stayed a few feet away from the bed, hesitating to come closer, or so it seemed.

Logan Cale stretched to accept the bottle. "Thanks," he said and sat up on his right elbow. He turned the cap and used his left hand to hold the bottle so he could take a short swallow of water. He watched the man, trying to find clues about his character. _Same age as the woman_, he thought, _if not a bit older, perhaps._ He wore a plain brown suit with a three-button jacket. There was nothing to distinguish it beyond any other suit that might be gathering dust in a closet somewhere. The brown just made him look like he'd stepped out of a dated photograph.

_More poetic words,_ he thought wryly. _Maybe I am a writer._

"Feeling better?"

The man sounded so hopeful, Logan felt bad about being unable to drop his guard around them. He smiled and hoped it seemed genuine. "A little. Guess I'm not myself yet."

"It'll take time," the woman said. _What had the man called her earlier? Margaret?_

"The doctor told us that the medication could have complications," the man continued, apparently relieved that he was listening. "The fever was bad. Temporary memory loss was a risk we had to take or we might have lost you."

"We?"

"Your father and I," the woman filled in neatly.

"So, Heather wasn't part of the decision?"

The man frowned. "Heather? Why would _she_ be involved?"

_Okay, that sounds like I've hit a nerve._ "She visited earlier," he said easily, hoping his delivery was more convincing than the man's. "She brought me coffee." He realized, then, that the mug was gone and he'd fallen asleep before taking even a sip of the wonderful-smelling brew.

"I see," the man said, his expression clearing a little.

"He doesn't remember Heather, dear," the woman said.

"Oh," the man said. There was an awkward pause.

"So," Logan began quietly, unable to think of any other way to ask. "You're my father?"

The man stiffened. "You don't remember _me_, either?"

"A little," he lied. "I can't quite recall your name, though."

The two strangers exchanged a glance.

"My name is Kenneth," the man in the boring brown suit said, still standing a few feet from the bed. He faced Logan again and sighed. "This is -"

"Margaret. I know."

Kenneth frowned. "You don't remember _my_ name but you remember _hers_?"

_And why do you sound so indignant?_ "You called her 'Margaret' before you left to get water, _Dad_." _Ease up on the sarcasm there, Timmy._ He looked at the woman. "I'm sorry, but I didn't remember your name, either."

"You called me 'Mom'," she reminded him, tentative.

He smiled a winning smile. "It felt right," he said, and meant it. _Doesn't make it real -_

"You're probably hungry," Margaret said and stood, changing the topic once more. "Let me get you something. Do you think you could handle soup?"

"That'd be great, thanks."

"Of course," she said and, taking Kenneth by the elbow, she steered him for the door. "We'll come back later."

"Great," he said, and watched them leave.

The camera hummed.

The girl - _Heather_ - had said that someone would be visiting him and that he wouldn't like the answers to his questions. She'd seemed so serious about it, as if the answers would be unpleasant, even frightening. Logan screwed the cap back on his water bottle and let his body slump onto his side. Admittedly, he didn't much like the prospect of Kenneth as his father but it was hardly frightening. He sighed. He'd only known the man for about five minutes, tops, so that wasn't fair. He wished he could draw on his memories and find the type of 'quality time' fathers and sons always seemed to have in the mythos of the American Dream - find moments of baseball games with Kenneth present, school trips with him as a parent supervisor, or visiting his father at work.

_Anything._

The same could be said of the woman, Margaret. He closed his eyes and willed memories to surface of bake sales and holidays and tears at his graduation in association with her as his mother. Some indication that she'd been there for him for some of his 'firsts': scrapes, school projects, and girl friends -

_Nothing._

He opened his eyes and stared at the lampshade. That boy. That boy had been inside his head, communicating with him through a dream. It sounded like something from a pulp science fiction magazine and could easily be dismissed as part of the medication he'd been on for his illness or just an odd experience.

But it wasn't. His instincts told him that something was very wrong, and it wasn't just that he had no memory of two people who were claiming to be his parents, though Margaret had managed not to directly confirm her relationship with him. He was also well aware that the topic of Heather had been dropped as quickly as possible. Who was she? Why did she look so different? He was glad he at least had some reference points to work with, enough to know that Heather's appearance wasn't normal and that the distant alarm bells about his circumstances held some validity.

_Damn._

Logan knew, on some level he trusted, that those two people weren't his parents. It was a shame, really. Margaret seemed nice, anyway, though Kenneth looked like he could use a vacation or something to get him to unwind a bit. Didn't matter. They were part of his waking world and that was unknown territory. His initial reaction to the woman provided some information he labelled as 'Possible Reality': he missed his mother, and she was gone. No amount of wishful thinking or drug-induced weakness would let him acknowledge anything else. As for Kenneth -

He smiled tightly. _If I ever get that dull, I'll just ask Max to put me out of my misery._

Logan gasped. He had difficulty breathing and he wasn't doing anything strenuous. The room spun just enough that he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. His hand tightened around the bottle of water and he tried not to panic. How tightly had the cap been screwed on? Did he have to break the seal to get it open? Were they able to inject something into it? He hastily reviewed the last ten minutes. It was possible. God, it could be the water. He took a deep breath, held it, and then let it go with an audible whoosh.

He opened his eyes. The dizziness had passed. He frowned slightly and carefully followed the steps that led to the spell: sipping water, watching them leave, relaxing into the mattress. And his thoughts? Father, mother, Heather, Max -

His breath caught again and his eyes widened. _Max._ That name was important. He thought about it again, tried to put a face to the name but he had to stop, had to let his mind wander onto other topics. The more he thought about - _that name_ - the more the room spun out of control and he battled to breathe. He was aware of a faint sheen of sweat over his body.

_Panic. Sheer panic. Because of a name -_

He returned to the dream. Was the apartment also an elusive memory? He was certain that the woman was part of a memory he couldn't recall properly. She was important. The feelings for her were strong. He _knew_ her but didn't know how she fit into his life. Was her name the name he couldn't think about without breaking into a sweat?

He returned to the boy. Neither Margaret nor Kenneth - if those were their real names - had mentioned the scared young man who had disappeared without a word. Was _this_ Max? He swallowed and gave his head a shake to clear that name again. The boy had done something to him. Had he made him sick? No, that didn't sound right.

_C'mon, Tim,_ he told himself sharply. _You obviously _have _a brain. Use it!_

He had to sort out what was real and what was deception. Conscious of the camera, he rolled onto his side as best he could and pushed himself up enough so he could take another cautious sip of water. He waited but the room didn't start to dance and he established that his breathing was just fine, thank you very much. It was a primitive way to test and far from absolute but he allowed himself more water, mostly convinced it contained nothing sinister.

The camera bothered him. Why were they watching? It wasn't as if he was doing anything interesting. Were they taping, as well? If so, why? And what was the real reason they were keeping him in this room, with nothing but cryptic pieces of information and long hours by himself?

If he could walk, his circumstances wouldn't be as complicated. He'd be finding a way to disable the camera, be testing the lock on the door, trying the window, lying in wait for someone to come into the room and overpower them. Logan sensed that was a part of his past, being a man of action. He wasn't used to waiting for someone to come to his rescue. He pursed his lips in thought: an independent cuss. _That sounds about right._ He'd obviously injured his back somehow and the result was plain to see, but despite the fog that drifted through his head periodically, he wasn't incapable.

He clenched his fists, felt the strength there. He took good care of himself, that much was obvious. He ran a hand over his face. There was the hint of stubble. How long had it been since he'd shaved? If he'd been sick for a month, did that mean that someone had been shaving for him, while he was unconscious or in the throes of a fever? It didn't make sense.

The logical conclusion was that it had been a few days, at most, that he'd been here, been 'sick', and not a month at all. The clues you could find if you knew what to look for -

So, he wasn't mobile, had no idea where he was or how he got there, or even if 'Tim' was his real name. That meant he'd just have to be more creative and outthink whoever was behind this bizarre charade - and hope he figured it out before the situation truly became a nightmare.

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Detective Matt Sung was dozing when they arrived. The uniform on guard at the door to his room eyed Max curiously, but Moratelli vouched for her and he let them through.

"I'll check on the status of the three 'amigos'," Jones announced and strode towards the nurses' station.

The door clicked shut behind her. Moratelli had entered first and moved to stand at the right side of Matt's bed. He retrieved some papers from a slot on the wall next to the IV unit and read them in silence.

Matt Sung looked like he was part bruise and part Egyptian mummy. His face was swollen, giving his profile an unnatural geography. There were stitches on his temple and his nose was taped with a small splint. His ribs were bandaged, as were several areas on his arms. A sheet and blanket covered his lower body but Max didn't need a medical degree to gather that more bandages probably lay beneath. The IV port went into the back of his left hand and the inside of his right elbow was patched up, she supposed from drawing blood.

"A few cracked ribs," Moratelli murmured and flipped to the second page. "Multiple contusions, a series of stitches required for cuts on his face and other areas of his body, a concussion, dislocated right shoulder, which they've fixed -" He stopped and returned the chart to the slot with more force than necessary. He twitched one of the medication pouches so he could read the printed text. "Hmmm, good stuff. They've got him on a morphine derivative for the pain, an anti-inflammatory and something for the nausea it causes." He let the pouch go and glanced at Max. "How much medical training do you have?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"I have the basic field training all military personnel get drilled into them from Day One." He removed his trench coat and draped it over the back of the only chair. "You?"

"Probably the equivalent," Max replied, unwilling to elaborate but being as honest as she could without going into details. She leaned her back against the wall and bent the knee of her right leg so her foot was braced against it. "How long have you been out?" _Of the military_ went unspoken but he understood.

"Six years."

"My training was a bit… unusual, let's say, but I've been out longer than that." Moratelli nodded absently. He seemed to be somewhere else. "You know your way around a chart."

"Sorry?"

"Not everyone can understand the charts."

"Oh." He looked at her and raised his eyebrows, waving his hand at the chair. Max shook her head so he sat on the edge of it and leaned both elbows on his thighs, staring at Matt. "The last time I was visiting someone in hospital it was my father. He was dying from adenocarcinoma. You know what that is?"

Max nodded: cancer that began in cells that lined the inside of the organs, usually inoperable. She'd encountered and absorbed all kinds of information in her quest to learn more about the human body and what tampering with it on the cellular level could create.

"I watched him slowly get eaten alive." He sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. "All we could do, really, was make him as comfortable as possible. They had him on really good shit. He still had a pension and medical coverage, and I was able to contribute to some of the bills, too." He looked at her then and gave her a ghost of the smile she'd come to know over the last five hours. "I learned everything I could about his treatment and that included how to read the charts _very_ thoroughly."

He turned back to Matt. She gave him a moment before interrupting his thoughts.

"You do everything thoroughly, don't you?"

"I try."

"Matt's gonna be okay."

"I know." He dragged a hand through his hair. Max was coming to know this as something he did when he was frustrated. "I just want to find out _why_. Why did they do this to him? Why did they shoot at _you_? _Why_ did they take Logan Cale? If they were using Matt as bait to get Cale out of his apartment, there are so many _other_ ways they could've done it. _Simple_ ways. And there's no apparent motive, ransom note -"

Matt groaned and turned his head, eyes still closed. "You like the s-sound of your own voice, d-don't you, Moratelli?"

Moratelli grinned. "You're too quiet, Sung," he countered. "Someone has to fill the void."

That comment was answered with a brief, choked laugh.

"Get back on your feet soon, 'kay?" Max added. "This guy can find good eats but he won't shut up."

"Hey," Moratelli said, sounding indignant but giving Max a wink. "I didn't hear you complain when I got you those bagels."

Matt opened his eyes and turned his head so he could look at Max. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"They t-took Logan, didn't they?"

Max folded her arms over her chest, as if she were hugging herself for warmth. "Yeah."

Matt swallowed. "I'm s-sorry," he whispered. "I figured he'd b-bring you and together you had a b-better chance." He shuddered slightly, possibly the medication wearing thin. "They said they'd k-kill the girl if I didn't make the call."

Moratelli frowned slightly and pushed the button to the nurses' station.

"It isn't your fault," he cut in. Max decided not to argue with him. She knew he was right. Three to one and the life of a girl at risk? What else could Matt have done? But she was sufficiently concerned about Logan that she couldn't say anything on that point without making the injured detective feel guiltier than he already did. "You did what you had to do to protect an innocent."

The intercom near Matt's head came to life with a click. "_Can I help you?"_ a man's voice asked.

"I need a medication check in room three-twelve, please," Moratelli replied.

"_On my way."_ The intercom disconnected with another click.

"What did they want, Matt?" she asked.

"They w-wanted Logan Cale."

Max and Moratelli exchanged a look. When Matt didn't continue, Max prompted, "That's it?"

"They didn't elaborate on that at all?"

Matt shook his head very slowly, once. "N-no."

There was a quick knock on the door and it opened. The officer poked his head around. "Did you ring for the nurse?"

Moratelli stood. "Yes."

The officer disappeared and a man in blue scrubs and a white coat entered. He was blond and stocky and barely taller than Max. The ID card around his neck read: Wozniak, Greg. "Is he in pain?" the nurse asked.

"I think his meds are running out," Moratelli said, stepping aside so Greg could check the pouches. "Is he due soon?"

"Soon. I'll see if the order has been sent up yet. Back in a bit." And he left as quickly as he'd arrived.

Matt seemed agitated. He closed his eyes and asked the room, "C-could it have s-something to d-do with Eyes Only?"

Moratelli looked sharply at Matt then at Max.

"What makes you say that?" Max asked. It wasn't a topic she really felt comfortable discussing in front of someone she didn't know very well, but any insight Matt might be able to provide would be valuable.

"M-maybe someone found out that he d-does some stuff for the big guy," Matt continued, struggling with some pain but obviously concerned about the investigation. "They t-talked about… b-burning…"

Max shrugged and pushed away from the wall. "Can't think of anything off the top of my head, but I'll look into it."

"I'm s-sorry."

"Matt, it's okay." And it was. The bad guys hadn't given him a choice.

Greg returned and they stepped aside so various pouches could be changed and an injection was given through the IV port to provide more immediate relief.

"That should get him through until the next shift starts at seven."

"Thanks," Moratelli said. The young man hurried to his other patients, the door clicking softly behind him.

"You g-get him back, Angel," Matt slurred quietly.

Moratelli and Max answered in unison. "We will."

And with that, Matt Sung managed a weak smile and slid into a drugged sleep.

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"Wakey, wakey, sleepy head."

Something smelled good over the formaldehyde. Logan opened his eyes a crack and looked at the pale girl. "What time is it?"

"It's morning, silly," she said. She was sitting in a folding chair instead of the edge of the bed. Her clothing hadn't changed at all.

He rubbed his eyes and tried not to think about the bad taste in his mouth. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Long enough that you're only just having your soup now," she said, and offered him a mug. He sat up, squishing the pillows behind him in a vain attempt to acquire some support. The wall was of greater assistance there. He accepted the mug and held it between both hands, inhaling deeply: chicken broth.

"Thanks," he said and took a tentative sip.

"Margaret thought you'd like it," she continued, almost chatty. "Though Kenneth was all for beef stew instead. Said you needed a 'man's meal'." Her voice went deep as she repeated the phrase, impersonating Kenneth as best she could.

Logan found himself smiling. "I don't think I could face stew, Heather."

The girl froze. It was like a switch had been thrown and the power had ceased to reach her. "Who told you my name?" Her voice held no inflection. Logan couldn't even tell if she was still breathing. He thought once more of the doll analogy and wondered if he should change that to 'robot'.

"Uh, I think it was Margaret." He drank more of the broth. It didn't taste like anything other than what it seemed and he needed the food. He had no idea when he'd last eaten.

Heather's eyes narrowed, suddenly sharp. "You don't call her 'Mom'."

"No," he replied, cautious. He glanced at the camera then back to the girl. "I guess I've outgrown that."

"If I had a mother," she began, her voice so low he could barely hear it, "I'd always call her 'Mom'. I'd call her 'Mom' every day and every day would be Mothers' Day and I'd shower her with flowers and love." She leaned in so suddenly that he'd barely taken his next breath and her face was inches away from his. "Do you believe me?"

_I believe you're not all there,_ Logan thought. "Is there a reason why I shouldn't?" he whispered.

She smiled, like a cat having cornered a mouse. "Oh, lots of reasons, probably. I can't think of _all_ of them right now, though. Too busy taking in the view."

He swallowed. The conversation had quickly slid into something he wasn't sure how to handle. "This isn't my room, is it?" She stared at him. "I mean, where's all my stuff?"

"Did you know you have the most amazing green eyes I've ever seen?"

"Um, no." He cleared his throat and brought the mug to his lips, effectively providing a shield from her attentions. "Is this some sort of hotel?"

Heather sighed. She pulled back to sit on the edge of the bed, her right hand trailing over his legs. It wasn't far enough away for Logan. He was glad he couldn't feel her hand through the blanket but it was still disconcerting to watch. "No, this is a rental apartment. You know, two bedrooms, living room, kitchenette, blah, blah."

"Why are we here?"

She shrugged. "You were travelling when you got sick. They brought you here to recuperate." She seemed disinterested. "Whatever."

"Can I have a paper to read or something?" No reaction. The hand kept moving. "You know, to pass the time?"

"I'll see if there's a magazine in the living room." But she didn't move to leave.

He finished his soup and held out the mug. "Thanks."

She took hold of it and deliberately wrapped her hand around his fingers so he couldn't let go. "I don't want them to hurt you," she whispered, her eyes blank.

"Why would they hurt me?" He tried to pull his hand away and entered a tugging contest. "Heather, let go of my hand."

She did. The mug dropped to the floor, bounced once, and rolled when the handle snapped free. "That was clumsy of you," she said.

"I didn't drop it."

Heather smiled and bent down to pick up the two pieces. "Yes, you did."

"C'mon, Heather." He nodded towards the camera. "It's on _film_."

She looked at the camera then back at him. "They don't tape all the time," she said, and promptly left.

_They don't, huh?_ Having wished she'd leave him alone, he now wished she hadn't gone. _Something worth pursuing,_ he thought, and wondered how long it would take for her to find him something to read.

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	9. Chapter 9

April 4, 2007: My Muse still with me so I'm not going to argue, lol!

My other stories have not been forgotten. No, really. If I don't stick with this now, I might **never** get this story finished!

My thanks to Alaidh for being an awesome Beta. :)

And my thanks to the folks who take the time to read and to those who also review. You inspire me with your ideas and encouragement. :)

**April 6, 2007:** Off to my Beta:)

**May 3, 2007:** Myapologies for the delay in posting. My Internet and e-mail went 'Boom!' and I've only recently stabilized both situations. I hope you enjoy.

**Playing With Fire**

**Chapter Nine**

**By Mouse**

**_"Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend."_**

_Albert Camus, French Novelist, Essayist and Playwright, _

_1957 Nobel Prize for Literature, 1913 – 1960._

Hospital coffee left a lot to be desired. Max drank it anyway because it was hot and four-thirty in the morning and the two detectives she'd known for less than six hours were still absent. They'd gone to interrogate the three men Max had incapacitated at the pizza place. She doubted the men would be able to provide much information. They had been hired to do a job and they'd actually achieved it, much to her chagrin.

_The three amigos_, Sue Jones had called them, though technically only one could claim a Hispanic heritage. _Hoodlums_, Misaki had said. Max figured they were just muscle with poor aim. They weren't in the loop. Possibly didn't even know the person who had hired them, just had taken the money and done their thing.

_Amateurs._

She was in the waiting room down the hall from three-twelve, where Matt Sung was alive if not exactly thriving. He would recover. She repeated that news to herself periodically as a small source of comfort during what had turned into a very trying day.

Max waited. She could easily have abandoned the detectives and left them to do their work. She could execute her own recon: revisit the scene, climb on the rooftops and make a thorough search for clues to Logan's abduction. She didn't need daylight for any of that.

But they did. They needed _her_, and as they were competent and letting her in on their findings, she'd decided to throw in her lot with them - for now. If they started hitting procedural walls or city hall red tape, she'd take the matter completely into her own hands.

The door opened and Detective Sue Jones stepped in, kicking the door gently shut behind her. She looked tired but smiled at Max and handed her a fresh, hot coffee.

Max smiled in return and accepted it. "How did you do that?"

Sue dropped into a nearby chair, careful not to spill her own coffee. "Do what?"

"Know that I needed coffee?"

"I didn't, actually, but I knew that _I_ did, so why get one when I can get three?"

"Thanks." Max took a sip and glanced at the door. "Where's Mr. GQ?"

Sue laughed softly. "Oh, he'd hate that."

"Hey, he knows he's good looking. Bet he uses that smile to get into all sorts of places."

"Sure he does and yeah, that smile has been a Godsend. Folks seem to think that's really cute." She settled back into the chair and tried to get comfortable but quickly realized she couldn't accomplish the impossible. "Sweetie, I've known Angel for fifty-five days as of today and been his partner for forty-nine of them. He isn't perfect but I wouldn't want to change a thing."

Max wasn't sure about her sudden nickname but coming from Sue it wasn't insulting and was obviously intended as a term of endearment. "The food must be a bonus."

"He has good sources for that, I'll admit, and Lord knows the man is easy on the eyes, but he's got brains and knows how to use them and for that _alone_ I'd be his partner."

Max raised an eyebrow and smirked. "But you won't marry him?"

Sue laughed. "He asks me at least once a day. Hadn't you picked up on that?"

"I figured, but I was curious."

"I meant what I said in the car. I've already got a man. Loves me more than football. I don't need another one."

They drank their coffee in silence for a few more minutes, dealing with their own thoughts. Max calculated for the umpteenth time how long it had taken her to reach the pizza place, her back to Logan; how long it had taken her to render the three men unconscious, deal with Josie and check out Matt's condition; how long it had taken before she'd returned to the window to look at the street.

It made her head hurt.

She drained her cup, sighed, and looked Sue in the eyes. "That was the longest conversation I've seen you have."

Sue smiled slowly. "Angel usually does most of the talking."

"I've noticed. Speaking of whom -"

"He went to check on Matt."

"Oh." Max thought about it, and then said, "You've been here for seven minutes, thirty-five seconds. What's taking him so long? It's just down the hall."

Sue raised her eyebrows. "You got an inner clock or somethin'?"

"Somethin' like that."

"He'll be along."

"It's gonna be light soon," Max continued, her mind on the day ahead. "I wanna visit the scene again, check out a few things. There _has_ to be a trail. No one's that good."

The detective sighed. "You've got a man who loves you, too, don't you, sweetie?"

Max darted her a look then stared at the floor. "Yeah."

"More than football?"

She pursed her lips, fighting a smile. "He's a basketball kinda guy."

"It's Mr. Cale, isn't it?"

The smile won. "You're good."

Sue shrugged. "It's a gift."

"So, what's up with Moratelli? He had a long visit with Matt earlier, so don't tell me that's all he's doin'."

"He needs a moment to regroup. He's just been the 'good cop' for our little interviews, and that ain't easy when you're feelin' bad."

Max stared at her. "Did you seriously just say that?"

"I open my mouth, words come out, especially when Angel isn't around."

"So why didn't he play the 'bad cop'?"

"I'm better at it, though we try to trade off." Sue's smile faded. "Besides, if he'd been the 'bad cop' this round, we might've given the morgue some business. He's too good to go to jail for scum like that."

The door opened and smacked into the small piece of metal in the floor that prevented it from colliding with the wall. If it had been alive, it would have screamed.

"Hi, there," Moratelli greeted them, his eyes pinning Max to her chair. "Supergirl? You and I need to have a little chat."

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The local newspaper was thin and didn't tell him much beyond that it originated in Seattle, where his room may or may not be located. An article on graffiti expressed disapproval, while the police declared they had more important things to focus on than kids with spray paint. Another writer covered the opening of a community centre and near the back was an update on arson activity in some of the less affluent sectors. There was lots of advertising but he wasn't the least bit interested in anything they had available - though he did spot a good price for RAM. He deduced from this reaction that he was into computers, and the more he thought about it, the more snippets of memories surfaced. Hunting for technology, dealing for upgrades, trading for software, setting up something elaborate.

Then he couldn't think any further without having some sort of attack, sweating and clenching the covers. _Damn._

While he'd already deduced that he normally wore glasses, it really became obvious how much he needed them when he tried to read the newspaper. He held it close and squinted at some of the finer print. He finally had to stop so he wouldn't get a headache.

Successful with his request for reading material, Logan Cale moved to the next tactic.

He asked to use the bathroom and a wheelchair was provided. As he had no difficulty transferring to the chair or manoeuvring with it, this told him his injury wasn't very recent. It took some persuasion to keep Margaret from following him inside to assist. He was a bit shocked that she'd offer, even if she really was his mother and concerned for his well-being. He was a grown man and it struck him as odd. He was firm and she relented, much to his relief.

After a quick check he decided they hadn't bothered to put a camera in the bathroom. He was truly alone. He closed his eyes, and let his mind drift for a few minutes, then took care of his ablutions. He even found a razor and a round mirror to stand on the counter, as the wall-mounted version was too high for him to see in. By the time he was done shaving, he'd confirmed that he did, indeed, wear glasses, if the faint marking across the bridge of his nose and the worn skin on the back of one of his ears was anything to go by - right where glasses would rub if they were due for an adjustment with the optometrist.

Hmmm… 

The toothpaste was vaguely minty if a bit gritty, but it made his mouth feel one hundred percent better. The soap lathered well enough, though the scent was a bit strong for his liking. _Some sort of perfume that's trying to imitate peaches_, he decided. Not his style. Amazing how fifteen minutes in the bathroom was sufficient time to determine that he had a style at all.

What he really wanted was a shower, but he'd save that for another bathroom break later on and stretch out his opportunities for privacy.

He squinted at the mirror and studied his face critically. _In my thirties_, he guessed, _and not used to being outdoors much._ His eyes were green, a piece of information he already had courtesy of Heather's rather intense attentions earlier. As he was preparing to leave, he looked in the round mirror again and he was struck by an unusual thought: _I've seen those eyes somewhere before._

It was an unusual thought because of course he'd seen his own eyes before. How many times a day must he look in a mirror, if only to groom himself? He sighed and opened the door, wheeling from the bathroom into the narrow hallway.

Logan was surprised to find no one there. He stopped, looked left and right, then chose left as it led away from his bedroom. The wheels made a muffled whisper over the grey carpeting as he entered an L-shaped combination living/dining room. To his left was a seating area. The furniture was minimal, the cushions vaguely blue in colour and the arms and legs were honey-toned wood. There were two couches, each intended for two people, and a chair with a high back and a footrest that could be raised by pulling a lever at the side. A scratched wooden coffee table was placed in front of one of the couches. It had a few coasters advertising beer on it and a bowl of crunchy-looking stuff that smelled like roses. His nose wrinkled. He thought the soap had been bad -

Straight ahead was the dining area. The table and chairs were honey-toned as well with a design that reminded Logan of pseudo-country. There were four chairs. Some of the spindles along the back of two of them had separated from the piece of wood that capped them across the top. There was a bowl in the centre of the table that appeared to contain peanuts still in their shell.

The walls were a tired shade of beige, slightly yellowed by previous occupants who had obviously been smokers. The boring expanse was broken up two large prints, hanging across from one another, both depicting impossibly vibrant country landscapes. They were pretty but trying too hard. Logan associated them with the décor of the waiting rooms in doctors' offices. He noted there was further discolouration on the paint around the light switch plate where so many hands had rested and the landlord hadn't bothered to do a regular cleaning.

_Not touching that_, he determined, and wondered when the couches were last cleaned. Maybe it wasn't safe to touch anything in this place.

The front door was on the other side of the table. He figured it would be locked and possibly guarded. He'd decided he was being held here for some reason and that requests to leave would be met with resistance. He negotiated the furniture anyway and tried the knob. That's when he saw the deadbolts, all four of them, spaced evenly at points below and above the knob, two and two. They were solidly in place and there was no way in Hell he'd be able to reach the top two, especially without a plan and with people he didn't know apparently wanting to contain his movements.

_So much for the obvious way out._

There was a door to his left, closed and locked when he tried it. Probably the other bedroom Heather had alluded to. Beyond the seating arrangement was an archway that led into the kitchen. He wheeled to the edge of one of the couches and looked, listening for any sign of movement: nothing. He could see an old white stove and some countertop. There was a pass through in the wall beside the archway, which made him wonder if that area used to be where the dining table had originally been located. That would make sense, wouldn't it? Someone could set various dishes on the shelf and another person in the dining room could take them and arrange them on the table. Simple.

There was natural light coming through the archway. He thought there was enough room for him to pass through to the kitchen and managed to get by with the knuckles of his left hand just grazing the edge of the coffee table. The kitchen was small, the white fridge old and too big, but above the sink was a small window. The sky was grey but it was certainly daytime. It looked like it was going to rain. He wheeled passed the sink to a larger patch of light and discovered sliding glass doors, which led to a small balcony. From the state of rust on the railings, and general disrepair, he wasn't sure if it was safe to go outside.

They weren't on the ground floor. Based on the apartment building across from him, he estimated they were on the third floor.

The glass was streaked with dried dirt, as if it hadn't been cleaned in years. Like the rest of the apartment, it showed signs of neglect and possibly even lack of inhabitants for quite some time. He thanked whatever deity might be paying attention that someone had at least thought to clean the bathroom.

"There you are," a voice said from behind him. _Margaret._

Logan smiled. "I wondered where you were," he lied, watching her closely. She seemed a bit nervous but nothing more was being telegraphed. He gestured with one hand at the kitchen. "Not in the Ritz, are we?"

Margaret smiled. "It was the best we could find on short notice. If we'd planned our visit, we wouldn't have chosen here." She looked around the room and made a face. "I'm glad we don't have to cook."

"Oh, I don't know," he said, wheeling forward a bit. "Clean it up a bit and you could probably cook something here. I know a few recipes that aren't too complicated." He stopped beside her and looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Does the stove work?"

"I shudder to think." She tentatively opened the oven door. "I don't know when this was last cleaned."

"How did you make my soup?"

"Microwave," she said triumphantly, patting the appliance that was resting on the counter. "Most everything else has been take-out or something we can put together easily with a bit of grocery shopping, like sandwiches."

Logan laughed. "Sounds fine by me. I could really go for some pizza -"

The air around him started to burn. He was sweating and shaking and he couldn't seem to stop. He couldn't breathe. _Oh, God, he couldn't breathe -_

Margaret prevented him from convulsing to the floor. "Kenneth!"

The man who claimed to be his father hurried into the kitchen. "What has that boy done now?" It took Logan a few seconds to realize that the man wasn't talking about him.

"I don't know." Margaret sounded very anxious. "Let's get Tim back to bed. You make the call and get the deadbolts."

As he was in no condition to argue or assist, Logan watched the walls vibrate by as he was pushed down the hall and back into his room. She assisted with his transfer and he lay on the mattress, sprawled at an angle, trying to think of what had triggered the spell this time.

Behind him, Kenneth arrived. "They're on their way."

"Did they say anything? Can we give him something?"

"N-no," Logan murmured, barely able to speak as the shaking still rattled through his body. Margaret and Kenneth moved him onto his back and pulled him up the bed so his head was on the pillows. Margaret tugged the covers over his lower body, muttering darkly about "the necessity of all this". "D-don't want any d-drugs -"

"It's just to _help_ you, Tim," Kenneth said. "They said you have these seizures sometimes and you need medication for that."

Margaret ran from the room and returned moments later with a damp face cloth. She folded it and placed it on his forehead. It was blessedly cool.

"Th-thank you," he managed. "Wh-what seizures? I d-don't -"

"Shhh," she said and sat on the edge of the bed, running her fingers through his hair. "It's alright, Tim. We'll take care of you."

A door slammed in the distance. Someone was running down the hall - no, several someones. The door to his room opened violently. Heather was the first through, screaming, "What did you do to him?" She was flushed and distraught and seemed genuinely concerned. Behind her was a woman Logan guessed was a doctor. She was probably about his age, brown hair back in a ponytail, latex gloves already in place. She set down a leather bag and proceeded to pull out a needle and a tube of clear liquid.

"This should stop the shaking," she said.

"We didn't do anything," Kenneth said firmly in response to Heather's question. "It's ridiculous to think that we would."

Logan watched as Heather pushed between him and Margaret, crouching on the floor beside the bed. "Tim? Can you hear me, Tim?" She took hold of one of his hands and didn't give him time to formulate an answer. "Shit! What the hell happened?"

"What were you talking about?" a new voice asked. Logan strained so he could see a young man walk towards him.

_The one who had been inside his head._

"Food," Margaret said, clenching her hands together. "We were in the kitchen, talking about food. He said we could get it cleaned up and cook something."

"That's it?" The young man stood behind Heather. "Move," he said flatly and, reluctantly, she did. He knelt in her place. "Hi, Tim. What else were you talking about?"

Logan tried to focus on his face. He had sandy-coloured hair, worn to his shoulders, and freckles. The only feature that stood out was his eyes: huge, soulful and bottomless. He'd seen eyes like this before, he knew he had, but where?

"He said he wanted pizza," Margaret told them.

The young man grimaced. "I don't know about the cooking stuff but the pizza was probably a trigger." He glanced at the doctor. "What's that?"

"Depacon," she said.

"Give it to him, anyway. I'll deal with it later."

"N-no." Logan tried to roll away but he didn't have the energy or the control. The young man held his arm still while the doctor found a vein and administered the medication. Logan winced and had to look away.

"This will make him relax," she said and smiled. "It's alright, Mr. Johnson. You'll be better soon. Have a sleep."

He could feel himself losing consciousness and, as hard as he tried, he knew he wasn't going to win this battle. He saw Heather grab the young man by the front of his t-shirt and say, "If you've done _any_ permanent damage, Jay, Mr. Flynn will _not_ be happy with you."

Further activity drifted away and he was unconscious seconds later.

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Detective Moratelli remained standing, arms crossed, and waited until Sue had left before he began.

"Max?"

He dragged her name out as if it were two syllables so she did the same with her response. "Yes?"

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

She remained seated and smiled up at him, uncertain where this was leading. "Is there a particular topic you'd like to choose or would you just like something random?"

He pressed his lips together, as if he were containing an outburst then said calmly," I'm thinking about the missing Logan Cale thing."

"I've told you what happened at the pizza place."

"Oh, yes, you have, though you've managed to gloss over _why_ you were there in the first place."

"I told you. Matt called -"

"You dropped whatever you were doing at ten o'clock at night and drove through two sectors to an abandoned pub because you received a scratchy phone call from a police detective."

Max studied the ceiling, as if in thought. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

He moved then, coming to a stop with one hand on the back of her chair, leaning over her, face to face. When he spoke, his voice was tense. "Just how stupid do you think I am?"

She looked him in the eye and asked, "Do you really want me to answer that?"

"Yeah, I do. You seem like a bright girl. Do you think hiding information from me is going to help Mr. Cale? Do you think I don't notice things?" His voice dipped an octave and almost became a whisper. "Do you believe for one second that I'm on the take or that I'm some stereotypical, doughnut-eating cop who doesn't give a shit? Do you think Sue would've agreed to try me out as a partner and then _stay_ with me if I was an idiot who couldn't find his ass with both hands and a flashlight?"

Max sighed but held his gaze. "I don't think you're stupid."

"Then tell me about Eyes Only."

"How did he get into this conversation?"

"Don't play coy. Matt mentioned him and you reacted. What do you know about Eyes Only? And what does he have to do with Logan Cale?"

Max weighed her options. "If I said Matt was delirious and I was just humouring him, would you believe me?"

"No."

She shrugged and tried to appear nonchalant as she spun a tale they'd concocted the same night they'd realized their usual ID wasn't sufficient anymore. Logan had thought it sounded good. Now she was going to put it to the test. "Sometimes Logan does a story and it connects with something Eyes Only is working on. Professional crossing of paths, you know? Similar sources."

"What's that got to do with Matt Sung?"

"That's for him to tell, not me."

He straightened. "Okay that I'll accept. So, Mr. Cale has a working relationship with Eyes Only, Seattle's 'voice of the people'?"

"Something like that."

"A relationship with a vigilante who exposes criminal activity and interrupts legal broadcast signals to spread distrust for the proper authorities?"

"That sounds a bit harsh."

"Do you work for him too, Max? This - this judge and jury?"

"You make him sound like Batman."

"No, _I'm_ Batman, remember, Supergirl? Now tell me: Do you work for Eyes Only?"

She shrugged, wondering if standing would place her at a better advantage. He'd still be taller, though, so she decided to remain seated for now. "Maybe I do some recon for him."

"Alright." He dragged a hand through his hair and started to pace the small room. "That's more information than I had a minute ago. So this call could've had something to do with Eyes Only?"

"It's a possibility."

"I need to know what stories Mr. Cale was working on. Maybe we can find a connection."

"I'll look into it."

That stopped his pacing. "_You'll_ look into it? We agreed to work together on this, Max. What about _we'll_ look into it?"

Max stood then. "You can look into it all you like, but you're not accessing Logan's work."

Moratelli smiled. There was an edge to the expression that didn't detract from the handsome face but certainly made it look deadly. "Do you really want me to get a warrant?"

"No -"

"'Cause I will, you know. If it helps save someone's life, I'll do it. That's my job. That's why I get up in the morning. You _do_ want him safe, don't you? Or would you rather find him in pieces in some abandoned warehouse two weeks from now -"

"Shut up!" In a blink, Max grabbed him by the lapels of his trench coat, grabbed the suit jacket underneath and the shirt underneath _that_ and for a brief moment, she also had some of his skin in her hands. She shoved him against a wall with enough force to rattle his teeth. He'd managed to push buttons she didn't realize she had anymore. To his credit, he didn't struggle.

"Max -"

"I said, _shut up_!"

And he did. He looked down at her, face solemn. He really did have beautiful blue eyes and she could think of several people who would compete for his attentions. She had moved her arm into a position against his throat but eased it away then released him completely and took a few steps back. Her eyes never left his.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"So am I."

His cell phone rang. He answered it on the third ring. "Yeah?"

"_We've got a messenger at the station,"_ a woman's voice said. _"Has a package for you and won't leave without a signature."_

"On my way." He disconnected the call and extended his hand towards her. She hesitated but took it. "We'll find him, Max, but I need you to trust me. I'm not 'Super Cop', you know. I don't like involving civilians but we could use your help and I don't want to jeopardize that. You discover _anything_, you let me know, okay?" She nodded. It was easier than speaking and less of a commitment.

Moratelli squeezed her hand once and let it go. "Let's find Sue and see how many green lights we can hit."

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	10. Chapter 10

**April 7, 2007:** I seem to be on a roll so I'd better go with it… :)

Thanks to Alaidh, the Almighty Beta, who makes sure my 'Dark Angel' writing stays proper to the Universe. :)

My thanks also to all who read and those who review. I write and post because I love it but your thoughts on my writing are a wonderful perk. :)

**June 6, 2007:** My apologies for the delay. Real Life grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and dragged me away for a while. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.

Enjoy!

**Playing With Fire**

**Chapter Ten**

**By Mouse**

"_**We are near awakening when we dream that we dream."**_

_- Novalis, Early German Romantic Poet and Novelist, 1772 - 1801_

He was in the apartment again, the one with the huge windows and the spectacular view. It was raining. The sky was thick with grey clouds and a steady mist gathered against the glass like tears. Three candles were lit on a table to his left and they were the only source of light in the room. He was in the same position as he'd been in the last dream: sitting in front of a chessboard. This time, however, he was alone. _Alone on a rainy day_, he thought. _How melancholy._

_Well, except for the two armies fighting on the board, but I can hardly communicate with them, can I?_

"Oi!"

Logan glanced down, startled at being hailed by a miniature knight on horseback. He licked his lips. _This is a dream, this is a dream -_ "Uh, yeah?"

"Do you think you could manage to make your move?" the knight asked impatiently. Logan absently wondered if the medieval armour he was wearing was uncomfortable.

"Uh…" Logan quickly surveyed the board but couldn't easily tell which pieces were on which square. It resembled a free-for-all more than a proper chess game. "Any recommendations?"

"It'd help my bishop if you could slide your rook two spaces to the left," the knight grumbled. His horse whinnied as the battle raged around them, swords clanging against shields and orders being shouted. Logan glanced at a small, bald man in robes, holding what he presumed was a Bible under one arm. He was tapping his foot and staring up at Logan, waiting.

"Okay," Logan said, reached for the rook in question - which resembled a poorly maintained castle - and moved it accordingly. A few stones crumbled from the protective wall surrounding it and crashed to the board. There was muffled yelling from inside. Logan winced and thought it just as well he couldn't make out what was being said.

"Thanks for that," the knight said. He flipped the visor down on his helmet and gave a lazy salute before riding off, mumbling about the amount of time it took for some people to make a decision. The bishop shuffled across the board, apparently not concerned about his lack of armour as he approached the battle.

Logan smiled, puzzled but bemused. Dreams were so surreal sometimes. He wondered if he'd remember this one upon waking. It occurred to him that it could be the drugs he'd been given after the bizarre seizure he'd experienced. He had no recollection of ever having seized before. He sighed. As entertaining as it was to just sit and watch the progress of the tiny figures, he wanted to explore. He grabbed the wheels and rolled backwards, then gently directed himself towards the windows.

The city looked abandoned. No sign of life was evident. Cars were strewn across the road below, some with the doors still open, as if the occupants had decided running was a better option and left their vehicles behind. Several buildings were burning and a few were merely shells, gutted and blackened by fire.

He stared in horror at the devastation, stretching to the skyline like a post-Apocalyptic nightmare. Wondering why it had suddenly become so warm in the apartment, he removed his jacket and tossed it to the side, not seeing where it landed. This was a dream, after all. If he wanted his jacket again later, he'd probably be able to pull a Luke Skywalker and just summon it.

_Why is it hot in here?_ He wheeled around, fearing the worst, but there was no fire. A voice had started speaking, coming from somewhere in the apartment, and he decided to follow it, hoping for answers.

_Desperate for answers._

"_Do not attempt to adjust your set,"_ the male voice began. _"This is a Streaming Freedom Video Bulletin."_ Logan arrived in an office area and stared at the sophisticated computer equipment. There was a monitor running and that's where the voice continued. He manoeuvred the wheelchair so he could see the image. _"The cable hack will last exactly sixty seconds. It cannot be traced, it cannot be stopped and it is the only free voice left in the city."_

The monitor had red, white and blue banners sliding across the top and bottom and in the middle was a pair of eyes, looking intensely out at the viewer.

_His_ eyes, to be exact.

_"Someone's playing with your mind,"_ the voice continued, startling him by addressing him directly. _"You have to remember who you are, what happened that night you went to meet Matt Sung."_

Logan's throat was dry. "Who are you?"

_"I'm_ you. _With any luck, I'm under the radar. I've been trying to get in touch with you - me - but there are certain words, key words, that are making things difficult."_

"Like my - our - name? That's when I seize, isn't it? Names and memories they don't want me to remember -"

_"Something like that, I think. I'm almost out of time but with any luck, I've broken some of their seals."_ He spoke rapidly, succinctly, as if he had to relay a message before the connection was broken. _" Don't let on, whatever you do, and know that someone is working on rescuing you."_

"How do you know?"

The eyes crinkled at the corners, as if the owner was smiling. _"Trust me."_

"Who am I?"

_"You're… Eyes Only."_

No seizing started. "That isn't my name."

_"It's one of your names, and one which, apparently, your abductors know nothing about. Good."_ The voice sighed. _"My minute's up. Gotta go or he might trace me."_

"Who?"

_"Peace. Out."_

The monitor went blank. _I just had a conversation with myself_, Logan thought, oddly buoyed by the experience. _And Matt Sung? Who is he? At least that name didn't trigger one of those spells._ He sighed. _That I'm aware of. I'm in a dream. Who knows what's happening to my body?_

At least he knew his instincts had been correct: he was a prisoner in that small bedroom.

_Assuming I can believe a dream -_

"What'cha doin'?"

He hadn't heard her approach. The young woman he was playing chess with in the previous dream stood where the rice paper screen opened into the rest of the apartment. She was wearing a black leather jumpsuit now. Logan was reminded of Julie Newmar from the old 'Batman' television show, which was one of many programs running when he was a kid.

He'd always thought Julie Newmar was kind of sexy.

This woman had her beat.

"Doing? Oh, nothing much." He tried a disarming smile. The last time he'd spoken with her it was actually the young man in his mind, manipulating the dream - if he believed stuff like that. For reasons he couldn't clearly explain, he had a feeling he'd experienced enough strangeness that accepting the concept of some type of telepathy wasn't that unusual. "You?"

"I'm on a break and thought I'd stop by and check out your fridge."

"Um…" He gestured with one hand towards the apartment behind her, uncertain of the kitchen's exact location, while the other hand gripped one of the wheels tightly. "Be my guest."

She grinned. "I already am," she said and disappeared behind the screen.

With a last look at the now-silent monitor, Logan followed. By the time he reached the other side, she was gone.

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The drive to the station took longer than any of them expected, given Moratelli's knowledge of short cuts and his luck when it came to sector cops. The Army had its place but the checkpoints could be beyond annoying. Some green recruit had checked all their documentation thoroughly and then made them wait while he made a call.

Max sat in the back seat and divided her time between watching Moratelli and watching Sue, who was watching Moratelli. She noted the number of sector cops seemed higher than normal and wondered what had happened while they were at the hospital. It wasn't even dawn yet. She sighed.

_Couldn't we have just a few hours in a row without some excitement? Is that so much to ask?_

"Says here you're from Los Angeles," the young man stated, finally returning from his call at the booth. His uniform declared he was a corporal.

"Yes, I am," Moratelli managed. Max wondered if he knew he was grinding his teeth. "You've seen the transfer card, Corporal."

"Oh, I know. That's not a problem, sir," the man hastily assured him. "I just wanted to make sure you were cleared to pass and that I had the authority to share some information."

Miraculously, Moratelli's volume didn't increase. "What are you talking about?"

"We've had a bomb threat for this sector, sir. Not an hour ago." He smiled and looked proud. "According to the information on your file, you were in LA when the Pulse hit, sir. I thought I'd call my CO and get permission to tell you the situation, what with your background and being a cop, sir. Figured you'd understand, might be able to help." When the detective just continued to stare at him, the young man swallowed and cleared his throat. "I've read up on LA, sir."

"I'm sure you have, Corporal," Moratelli replied. Max could hear the edge to his calm voice and wondered if the soldier could tell, too. Perhaps he was too wrapped up in some version of hero worship that he was oblivious. She exchanged a look with Sue as Moratelli continued with, "Any details? It can't be for the whole sector."

"Just a cryptic message, sir, that several buildings in the sector have been targeted, and something about it being all the fault of the red, white and blue."

"You can't put a whole sector on alert!"

The corporal looked stricken. "It was done in LA, sir."

"Because of the _gangs_. Extenuating circumstances. This is _Seattle_, not a war zone. Who's your CO?" Moratelli sighed. "No, never mind. Let us pass. We have an urgent matter at the station. Give me a useful number where I can reach someone in charge. I'll call them from there."

"Yes, sir." The corporal gave him a card, an eager salute and the barrier was raised. Max glanced behind her at the long line of vehicles and wondered if they'd let anyone else through.

The Toyota fairly leapt ahead and in less than three minutes they were at the police station. People were running from an old apartment building roughly across from the station, clogging the roads, holding children, backpacks, bags of food. They passed one elderly woman in a bathrobe, clutching a birdcage, her face a portrait of terror. The bird was very agitated and rightly so. Uniforms were trying to calm the situation but it looked like they were being overwhelmed by the task.

Moratelli parked as best he could in front of the station. They emerged as a unit and hit the stairs running.

Sue was the first to speak as they entered the building. "What the hell is going on?"

"There's a bomb threat," said the officer behind the main desk. "The building across the road is thought to be one of the targets."

_That explains why they're evacuating it._ "How do you know?" Max asked, and dodged left to avoid being run down by two men who were heading for the street, faces grim.

The officer looked at her but spoke to Sue when he answered. "There's a delivery for Moratelli," he said, "and a note was taped to the outside. Forensics is examining it now."

"Tell me they haven't opened the package yet?"

"No, Detective," he said hastily, addressing Moratelli. "It's in the back room."

Max darted into the lead and the trio made their way through the press of people to an area of abandoned desks. Conversations continued around them at various volumes and the phones were ringing constantly. Everyone seemed to be in constant motion, even if they were pausing to get water at the cooler. She recognized Misaki and Christine from the crime scene outside the pizza joint. Both wore latex gloves and it looked like they were testing a few pieces of paper with some chemicals. The next person Max saw made her break into a wide grin.

"What're you doin' here?"

Original Cindy stood in her jacket and trousers, both green camouflage material, and a t-shirt that read, 'I am not a terrorist. Please don't arrest me.' She smiled. "I'm doin' my job."

Sue raised her eyebrows. "You know one another?"

"Jam Pony Messenger," Max and Original Cindy chimed together.

Original Cindy held up her ID card and performed a quick once-over on the people on either side of Max. She waggled her pen in the air. "Please tell me you're Detective Moratelli? You sure match the descriptions I've been gettin'."

Despite the long night and the tension of the situation, he gave her one of his Hollywood smiles and stepped forward. "I am he."

She pressed the pen and a clipboard into his hands. "Sign _here_ and _here_ and the package your co-workers have already become so possessive of is legally all yours." He signed with a flourish and tipped her with a ten-dollar bill. "Thanks. You're aiight."

"I take it the package isn't ticking?" Sue asked, regarding the item warily. It had been placed on one of the desks and given plenty of room.

"No," Misaki said, without looking up from her work.

Max guessed it was about the size of a book, like a hard cover novel rather than a paperback: three inches thick by four inches wide by seven inches long. "How much does it weigh?"

"I'd say about two and a half pounds," Original Cindy said, leaving the officer who was going to answer with his mouth open, as if a hinge had broken. "I've been a courier long enough that I know what these things weigh in at, and that -" She pointed to the package. " - is a fine quality bubble envelope with a cardboard box inside and then something pretty light inside that, as there isn't much more room on the scale."

Moratelli looked at a lean, balding man and asked, "Okay for me to open it, Captain?"

The man sighed and nodded, rubbing at his chin with one hand as if he was checking whether or not he needed to shave. "No traces of explosives or powdered contaminants, nothing unusual as far as we can tell."

Original Cindy stepped back as Moratelli pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, snapped them on and opened the bubble envelope. As she had predicted, there was the cardboard box. The detective turned it over in his hands once then opened one of the side flaps and peered inside.

"What're you doin' here, boo?"

"Long story," Max whispered, just as Moratelli announced: "We've got a disc."

"That was my guess," Misaki said cheerily, then became subdued when a few of the detectives turned her way. She cleared her throat but didn't say anything further.

"What does the note say?" Sue asked.

"It isn't very clever," the Captain began. _What is his name?_ Max thought, trying to remember if she'd been introduced. _Houlihan?_ "Berating Seattle for being a source of sin and depravity -"

"What?" Moratelli snorted. "They haven't been to LA -"

"And mentioning some structures, like the apartment complex across the road," the Captain continued sternly, obviously unhappy at being interrupted. Moratelli ignored him and cleared some papers from a desk, revealing a DVD player. He popped the disc in. Sue fiddled with the television controls on a unit Max knew was definitely pre-Pulse. She wouldn't have looked at it twice if she'd spotted it during a B&E. _A shining example of where the city's funds_ aren't _going_, Max thought.

"Showtime," Moratelli stated, and pressed play.

It took a few seconds before an image appeared, and even then it was only in black and white. A man was lying in a bed, the sheets pulled up to his shoulders. He seemed to be asleep.

There was a hush as most of the people in the room looked at Max.

For her part, Max stared at the screen, her mind automatically calculating the distance and location of the camera in relation to the subject and the rest of the room, the type of feed in use -

She swallowed. The man's face was turned to the side, both arms bent at the elbow and thrown back over his head. She pressed her lips together and managed a small smile.

_He looked like a kid when he slept._

Original Cindy was the first to break the silence. "Is that who I _think_ it is?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Max glanced at the officers then settled her gaze on Moratelli. "That's Logan Cale."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When he awoke, he was alone again. He was hot so he pushed the covers to one side of the bed. Minutes later, he was cold and reached over to drag them across again. He shifted his pillow, stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to get comfortable.

_Damn_, Logan thought, tired and still groggy from whatever drug they had given him earlier. _If I don't figure out who I am and what the hell is going on soon, I think I'll go mad._

Then he remembered some of his dream: armies fighting on a chessboard, a conversation with a pair of eyes on a monitor, the young woman with dark hair. He thought back to the eyes and frowned. They'd been his eyes, he was certain, but what did that mean? If he had another identity called 'Eyes Only', wouldn't he remember that? It was such an unusual name, like some sort of code. He smiled grimly. _Maybe it's my superhero name -_

He heard movement outside his door but, this time, he decided not to bother to pretend he was asleep. While he had the opportunity, it was time for some detective work. He rubbed at his face to try to clear the last of the mental cobwebs and pushed himself up on the bed, pillow behind his back.

_It's not like I'm going to go back to sleep -_

The doorknob jiggled and with a grunt Heather entered, balancing a tray with one hand while she opened the door with the other. When she saw he was conscious, she smiled. She had a beautiful smile. Logan thought it was a shame she didn't seem to use it very often.

"Hi," she said brightly and approached the bed.

"Hi," he said, and found what he hoped was a half-decent smile himself. "What's this?"

"I thought you might be hungry." She sat on the edge of the bed and offered him the tray. He accepted it and placed it on his lap: ham sandwich, potato chips, glass of milk and a newspaper.

His smile widened. "Thank you."

Heather blushed. "I thought you might like a real paper, as you wanted something to read earlier and all we had was that local daily."

Distracted by the blush, Logan almost failed to respond. _Why is she blushing? What's going on here? What role does she play in all this anyway?_

That's when he noticed she'd changed her top. It was a sky blue t-shirt with long sleeves and looked to be of a decent quality of cotton. "You look nice," he said and took an appreciative bite from his sandwich.

Her blush deepened. "Thanks."

_Damn._

He didn't want to make it obvious that he was using her to get information, so he had to be careful. She had demonstrated incredible mood swings in the short time he'd known her. _Remembered knowing her_, he amended. She could easily shift from casually polite to uncomfortably close to an angry rage. Anything he tried could backfire with consequences that were impossible to predict.

Logan swallowed his second bite of sandwich and sipped his milk. "Mmmm."

Heather giggled. He was struck by the apparent contradiction before him: a young woman who was shy and flirty didn't connect with the blank-faced scary doll.

"Thanks," she murmured and looked down at her hands.

"So," he said, opting for casual conversation. "What do you do when you aren't bringing me sandwiches?"

"Watch you on the monitor," she replied frankly, still relaxed and smiling.

"Isn't that boring?" He tried the potato chips: salt and vinegar.

She shook her head. "No. You're cool to watch."

_Okay, that's a little creepy -_

"Surely you do other stuff? Listen to music, watch television, go shopping, you know." He was flailing a bit and he knew it. All he could do was stay the course and hope Heather just thought he was endearing.

"Sometimes," she admitted, looking back at his face. "But mostly I just watch you." She glanced to the left as if considering something. "Though sometimes I get out."

Logan finished his sandwich. "What do you do?"

"I make things burn," she said sweetly, and smiled.

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	11. Chapter 11

**May 4, 2007:** My Muse is still poking me with this story… 

Thanks to Alaidh, the Almighty Beta, who ensures my 'Dark Angel' writing stays proper to the Universe. 

My thanks also to all who read and those who review. 

**May 27, 2007:** My apologies for the delay. I had most of this written then Real Life intervened. Darn Real Life, anyway… ;)

Enjoy!

**December 12, 2008:** I wrote this that long ago? Man, am I running behind…

I haven't forgotten about this story or 'Thoughts in the Dark'. Real Life and so on interrupted me. I hope to be back on track with more regular posting soon.

Now I just have to remember how to post to FFN…

My thanks to Alaidh, for still being the Almighty Beta, and to those who have taken the time to comment on my writing or send PMs, asking if I'm alright. I've been terrible about replying, and I do apologize.

Um… You might want to re-read the last chapter before reading this one. It's been a hell of a long time…

**sheepish look**

~ Mouse

**Playing With Fire**

**Chapter Eleven**

**By Mouse**

"_**Revenge is a confession of pain."**_

_- Latin Proverb_

"_**An eye for an eye would make the whole world blind."**_

_- Mahatma Ghandi, Indian Philosopher, 1869 - 1948_

The DVD continued to play. Logan shifted a few times in his sleep while she watched, as if he was having difficulty getting comfortable. Max wondered if he was dreaming.

"Let me see the note." Moratelli extended his hand for the piece of paper Misaki was analyzing. She gave it to him and he skimmed it quickly. "Wow, no threat to Shakespeare here." He cleared his throat. "'We've lost our way but never fear - I know just what to do; I blame the rotten apple core, the red, white and blue.' That's brilliant prose."

"I've read worse," Original Cindy murmured.

Moratelli gave her a sympathetic look. "I'm so sorry." He waved the page. "It goes on -"

"It would," Sue muttered.

"'I must remove the scales of Justice; must demand she pay her due -'"

"The court house has been evacuated," the captain interjected.

"'The innocent will suffer for your lack of future view.'"

"Stretching the rhyme," Max commented absently.

A uniform entered and announced: "The building across the way is clear. In fact, we've got that whole block clear."

"Good," the captain said.

Moratelli continued to read. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the telephones and multiple conversations around them. "'Across the way they'll scream your names -'"

"Ah," Sue said. "That's where the apartment comes in."

"'The harbor lights will cry anew -'" He paused, eyes widening. "Do they mean the _hospital_?"

"We don't know," another detective said. "So we're having that evacuated, too."

Sue shook her head. "God." Max couldn't agree more. The chaos and panic at Harbor Lights Medical Facility must be overwhelming for staff and patients alike.

Moratelli frowned. "'Destruction will befall the ones who follow the red, white and blue.' But that doesn't even flow properly."

The captain sighed. "This isn't an English exam, Moratelli."

"I didn't say it was; it's just… so _bad_. And it goes on -"

"We've read it, thanks," Christine stated dryly.

"Yeah, but _I_ haven't and neither have _they_." Moratelli gestured to Max and Sue. "'You will burn with all the rest, until you see my view. The chimera will comply with my request, or he will be burning, too.'" He looked sharply at Max then followed her gaze to the man on the monitor. "Shit."

Sue frowned. "What?"

"He means me," Max said flatly. "This guy has Logan as leverage so I'll do something for him."

"Or _her_," Misaki commented. Moratelli narrowed his eyes at her. "Well, it _could_ be a 'she'. The note is typed, so there's not even any hand writing to try to determine gender."

Moratelli conceded. "Point taken. But there's another verse: 'Time is an illusion - it is running out for you. Any deaths will be the fault of the red, white and blue.'"

"He's kinda fixated on colour," Original Cindy observed. "Or _she_," she added and nodded toward Misaki.

Max sighed. This was a nightmare made real: _Logan being held hostage, bomb threats and bad poetry_. Her eyes were distracted by a series of numbers running in the bottom right hand corner of the screen. At first, she'd thought it was the count for the footage but now she realized that the numbers were running down to zero…

"But this part," Moratelli said. "The 'You will burn with all the rest' bit. If the package was addressed to me -"

"It was," Christine confirmed.

"And therefore the _station_, then are they talking about… _us_?"

Max jolted to life. "It's a countdown," she stated and pointed at the numbers. _Damn. Why didn't I make the connection sooner?_ "And according to this, we've got about a minute to get the hell outta here."

"Dear Lord," the captain said, then, "Everybody out, _out_!"

Sue grabbed a microphone, which turned out to be part of the station's PA system. "This is Detective Jones. Clear the building. You've got less than a minute. This is not a drill, I repeat, this is not a drill. _Movemovemove!_"

The room was emptying rapidly, with people charging out both the front and rear exits. Max could hear feet pounding down the stairs from the second floor and thanked whatever deity might be paying attention that the station wasn't larger.

"Max!" It was Original Cindy, being escorted firmly by Sue but not wanting to leave her friend behind.

Max waved her out with both hands. "Go! I'm coming!"

Sue's voice could be heard as she ran for the front door. "Moratelli, _move_ your ass!"

"How'd they get a bomb in here?" Moratelli wondered aloud, ejecting the disc and jamming it into his trench coat pocket with the note.

"No time to hunt for it if that countdown is anything to go by." Max grabbed Moratelli by the arm. "Back is closer."

And they ran.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

Logan tried not to stare. Heather continued to sit before him, smiling. He looked at his glass of milk and took a sip, just so he'd have something else to focus on.

"_I make things burn."_

Was she serious? And did he dare ask her? "Thanks for the sandwich," he said instead, and worked on the remains of his potato chips.

She beamed. "You're welcome."

"Nice milk, too." _That sounded stupid. _ "Very… fresh," he added.

"Glad you like it." Heather looked at her watch and sighed. "I have to go now," she said apologetically. She stood, placed the newspaper beside him and lifted the tray. "See you later," she said brightly and left the room, a spring in her step.

Logan let his head drop back until it hit the wall. He stared at the ceiling and wondered if maybe he'd slipped into the _Twilight Zone_. With nothing else to do and not wanting to try the shower until later, he opened the paper and started flipping through it, very aware of the camera. Heather had said that it wasn't always taping but he had no confirmation that this was the truth, nor did he have any way of determining when it was on or off.

_A little light at the base of the camera would've been useful_, he thought, _which is exactly why there isn't one, of course._

This paper, like the previous one, originated in Seattle but it was definitely more substantial. Logan tossed the advertising inserts on the end of the bed, set the sports section aside for later and started to read the headlines. After five minutes, the size of the type became too much of a challenge. He groaned in frustration and started flipping the pages at random, looking at the pictures mostly. There was an article on graffiti, a feature he'd noticed in the previous paper, and there were several examples photographed to go with the text. He glanced at them, turned the page and stopped.

As casually as possible, he turned the page back and stared at one of the images.

His eyes stared back at him, framed top and bottom by a familiar red, white and blue banner.

He raised the page so he could read the caption: 'A portrait of the infamous 'Eyes Only' was spray painted on a support pylon down by the docks. The artist didn't sign his work.'

_So my dream was right: I am Eyes Only._

He didn't know how that was possible but the picture made it plain. The article itself provided no news regarding his apparent alter ego. His eyes were merely an example of the city's problem with artists using public structures as their canvas. Not wanting to draw any attention to the page he was reading, he flipped until he reached the back and looked blankly at the articles there. Several were tags, continued from the first or second pages, and at least one was a follow-up that read more like a space holder when he focused on it. It was under the heading 'Voice of the People'.

_The latest word on the street in Sector 5 is that the arson investigation has reached a brick wall. The general feeling is that no one cares what happens to the citizens who live there, as they don't earn enough money or have a loud enough voice at City Hall. It is this reporter's opinion that the police are doing the best they can, considering the lack of evidence left at the various scenes. I spoke with forensics investigator Christine Tennant after the last explosion and she had this to say at a meeting with the press: "We still aren't sure what type of explosive has been used as there never seems to be enough conclusive residue to determine the nature of the bombs." She had no further information. This reporter knows there must be a pattern to the buildings targeted but the police haven't revealed any leads to the criminal. I'll be watching this case and will keep you informed. The Voice of the People will be heard. – Calvin Simon Theodore._

He reread it, somehow feeling that this was important. The author's name meant nothing to him but the subject of arson did. Why? Scattered snippets of a day gone awry threaded through his head: the topic of marriage, preparing a lamb for roasting, swimming lap after lap in an indoor pool. None of it made much sense but remarkably he didn't seem to have any physical reaction to these pieces of information. No seizures or dizziness or rising headaches. He folded the paper and set it aside, hoping he still appeared nonchalant to anyone watching the video feed.

_Which I guess would be Heather, if what she said was true._

He remembered how she'd checked her watch, as if an unwanted appointment required her attention. _Maybe she's stepped out for a bit. If only I knew whether or not I was alone -_

There was one sure way to find out.

Logan reached for the wheelchair, which had been left beside his bed, and pulled it closer. He locked the brakes and transferred quickly then snapped the brakes off and manoeuvred around the bottom of the bed, heading for the door. It wasn't locked so he proceeded into the hallway and reached the living/dining area in short order. Since leaving the bedroom, he'd been listening for any sound to indicate that someone else was in the apartment but so far it had been quiet. He checked the kitchen: nobody there. He poked his nose into the fridge and discovered a carton of milk. He sniffed it cautiously. It seemed safe so he took one of the plastic glasses from the dish rack and helped himself to another serving, leaving the glass in the sink when he was done.

The door to the front bedroom was closed and locked when he tried it, and no light shone from underneath. He listened carefully but either the door was very well insulated or there wasn't anyone on the other side. _That's probably where they have the surveillance equipment set up_, he thought, still puzzled as to why they would bother. If he _was_ really named 'Tim' and these people _were_ his family, there was no reason for him to be kept here, never mind have his movements recorded. The story of him being ill had been suspicious from the start and was growing old very quickly. His dream about Eyes Only and then confirmation that such a person actually existed only added to the summation that it was all an elaborate ploy to keep him mostly drugged and physically confined. He had concluded that they wanted him to believe their story so that he wouldn't ask difficult questions or attempt to escape, giving them time to do…

He sighed. _What? What are they trying to accomplish? They want me to be as little trouble as possible but obviously want me alive. Something else is happening here, but what?_

The drugs were making it difficult to think. He smacked the top of the wheels in frustration. _Damn._

The front door only had two bolts drawn across this time, both within reach when he stretched. Logan sat back in the chair and considered his options. He could try to open the door and test if there were any other locks that were operated from the outside. He scanned the area around the moulding but couldn't see an alarm system of any kind. His main problem wasn't the physical limitations that came with his injury, though that didn't help; the erratic nature of his 'spells' was disturbing and they completely incapacitated him. It was unfortunate but he really needed more information before he tried leaving.

That didn't mean he couldn't try to get a message out to someone. If only he knew who he could contact.

_If only I had a phone -_

At least no one had appeared to direct him back to his room. That was something.

He took the time to search the rooms he could access but, as he suspected, he couldn't find a telephone of any kind. If he was in a building where people could lease for a period, there might be an office for the landlord or maybe even a telephone in the lobby. It was a place to start.

Logan took a deep breath, let it out slowly and reached for the higher of the two bolts.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

The back door of the police station stayed on its hinges, much to Max's surprise, as she and Moratelli launched themselves into the darkness. They crossed the small, wooden deck where the smokers took their breaks and skipped the three steps down completely. Moratelli wasn't a slouch in the running department, but he wasn't nearly as fast as Max _could_ be. She wasn't trying to outrun him, though. If she kept close and they hit a patch of trouble, she was more likely to be able to do something about it if they stuck together.

Ahead of them, other members of the force were fleeing through the parking lot to where a number of people were gathered behind a barrier of harassed uniforms. Max could make out Misaki and the captain. Misaki was flagging and stumbled. Max had hold of her right arm in seconds and propelled her along. They reached the edge of the lot and turned in time to see Moratelli skid to a halt just beside them. The three of them exchanged a look in the gloom then focussed on the building.

"Is everybody out?" the captain shouted at the group. As some of the officers had left by the front door, it was impossible to know for certain.

Max had been counting in her head, matching the time she'd seen on the screen. Aloud, she said quietly, "Three, two, one…"

There was no explosion.

"Huh," Misaki managed, still trying to catch her breath. "Maybe we were wrong."

"What about the apartment building?" someone behind them asked.

Max tilted her head to one side, listening and sniffing the air. "Something's burning," she said. Moratelli lifted his cell phone, possibly to call the number of the CO the young corporal had provided, or so Max guessed. He had just taken a breath when the station lit up like a Roman candle. People screamed and some fell to the ground as a wave of hot air blasted across the lot.

Max flinched and narrowed her eyes at the intensity of the fire, determined to witness anything that could lead her to Logan. Something moved by one of the windows; someone was still inside. Max took a few steps, instinctively wanting to help but wondering if anyone could survive something like this. Even if she could get inside, she'd only arrive in time to retrieve a badly burned corpse.

Then the figure appeared in the back door and raised its arms to the sky, as if in celebration of the event. From what Max could tell, it was a young woman, and she was very much alive. There were gasps around her as some of the others spotted the figure. Predictably, Moratelli started forward. _Stupid hero_, Max thought, and grabbed hold of his arm with a determined grip.

He turned, frustrated, unable to free his arm. "Max, I have to try -"

"She's fine." Max glanced at the detective then returned her gaze to the young woman. "They've got a damn pyrokinetic."


End file.
